SPHINX'S    - 
HILDREN  ETC. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


By  the  Same  Atithor. 


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THE 


SPHINX'S  CHILDREN 


AND 


OTHER    PEOPLE'S 


BY 


ROSE   TERRY   COOKE 

Atithor    of   "  Somebody's    Neighbors"    etc. 


BOSTON 

TICKNOR     AND     COMPANY 
i  886 


Copyright,   1886 
BY   TICKNOR   AND    COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved 


PRESS  OF 
ROCKWELL  AND  CHURCHILL 

BOSTON 


S  7S~ 


§  NOTE. 

2 

jg  The  pieces  contained  in  this  volume  are  reprinted 

chiefly  from  the  "Atlantic  Monthly"  "Harper's 
Magazine"  and  the  "  Galaxy"  although  a  por 
tion  of  them  have  appeared  in  other  periodicals. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN 11 

THE  DEACON'S  WEEK       .         .         .         .         .  25 

A  BLACK  SILK 37 

JERICHO  JIM    .                  59 

LOST  ON  A  RAILWAY         .....  79 

DOCTOR  PARKER'S  PATTY 108 

DOOM  AND  DAN 136 

SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  THOMAS  TUCKER.         .         .  167 

THE  FORGER'S  BRIDE        .         .                  .         .  204 

Too  LATE 229 

MY  THANKSGIVING   .         .         .         .         .         .257 

How  SHE  FOUND  OUT      .         .         .         .         .290 

ANN  POTTER'S  LESSON 317 

ACELDAMA  SPARKS  ;  OR,  OLD  AND  NEW  .         .  341 

SALLATHIEL  BUMP'S  STOCKING  ....  393 

SALLY  PARSONS'S  DUTY 410 

A  HARD  LESSON 432 

'LIAB'S  FIRST  CHRISTMAS  .  459 


THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN 


THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 


"  Que  la  volonte  soil  le  destin !  " 

LONG  had  she  sat,  crouched  upon  her  breast,  — 
crouched,  but  not  for  slumber  or  for  spring.  No 
slumber  gloomed  darkly  in  those  broad,  sad  eyes ;  no 
dream  indefinably  softened  the  lips,  whose  patient 
outline  breathed  only  wakefulness  and  expectation,  — 
a  long-deferred,  yet  constant  expectation,  —  a  hope 
that  would  have  been  despair,  save  that  it  was  just 
within  hope's  limits,  —  a  monotonous,  reiterate,  inde 
structible  chord  in  the  creature's  mystic  existence, 
that,  once  struck  by  some  mighty,  shrouded  Hand  of 
Power,  still  reverberated,  and  trailed  its  still  renewing 
echoes  through  every  fibre  of  its  secret  habitation. 
Nor  yet  for  spring ;  —  a  couchant  leopard  has  posed 
itself  with  horrid  intent ;  murder  glitters  in  its  fixed 
golden  eye,  quivers  in  the  tense  loins,  creeps  in  the 
tawny  glitter  of  the  skin,  clutches  the  keen  claws, 
that  recoil,  and  grasp,  and  recoil  again  from  the  velvet 
ball  of  that  heavy  foot ;  murder  grins  in  the  withdrawn 
lip,  the  white,  red-set  teeth,  the  slavering  crunch  of 
the  jaw  :  but  nothing  of  all  these  fired  the  quiet  and 
the  silence  of  the  crouching  Sphinx  ;  nerve  and  muscle 
in  tranquil  strength  lay  relaxed,  though  not  uncon 
scious.  Year  after  year  the  yellow  Desert  robed  itself 
in  burning  mists,  splendid  and  deadly  ;  year  after  year 


12  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

the  hot  shr,oom  licked  up  its  sands,  and,  whirling  them 
madly  over  the  dead  plain,  dashed  them  against  the 
silent  Sphinx,  and  grain  by  grain  heaped  her  slow- 
growing  grave  ;  the  Nile  spread  its  waters  across  the 
green  valley,  and  lapped  its  brink  with  a  watery  thirst 
for  land,  and  then  receded  to  its  channel,  and  poured 
its  ancient  flood  still  downward  to  the  sea  ;  worshipped, 
or  desecrated  ;  threaded  by  black  Nubian  boatmen,  who 
mocked  its  sacred  name  with  such  savage  mirth  as 
satyrs  might  have  spirted  from  their  hairy  lips ;  navi 
gated  by  keen-eyed  Arabs,  lithe  and  dark  and  treach 
erous  as  the  river  beneath  them ;  Coptic  shepherds, 
lingering  on  the  brink,  drank  the  sweet  waters,  and 
led  their  flocks  to  drink  at  the  shallows,  when  the 
shepherd's  star  cleft  that  deepest  sky  with  its  crest, 
and  warned  the  simple  people  of  their  hour;  —  yet  for 
ever  stood  the  Sphinx,  passionately  patient,  looking 
for  sunrise,  over  desert,  vale,  and  river,  —  beyond 
man,  — to  her  hour.  — And  the  hour  came. 

Once  to  all  things  comes  their  hour.  The  black 
column  of  basalt  quivers  to  its  heart  with  one  keen 
lightning  thrill  that  vindicates  its  kin  to  the  electric 
flash  without ;  the  granite  cliff  loses  one  atom  from  its 
bald  front,  and  every  other  atom  quails  before  the 
dumb  shiver  of  gravitation  and  shifts  its  place  ;  the 
breathing,  breathless  marble,  which  a  sculptor  has 
rescued  from  its  primeval  sleep,  and,  repeating  after 
God,  though  with  stammering  and  insufficient  lips,  the 
great  drama  of  Paradise,  makes  a  man  out  of  dust,  — 
once,  once,  in  the  deadness  of  its  beauty,  that  marble 
thrills  with  magnetic  life,  drinks  its  maker's  soul,  re 
peats  the  Paradisiac  amen,  and  owns  that  it  is  good. 
Yea,  greater  miracle  of  transcendental  truth,  —  once,— 


THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN.  13 

perhaps  twice,  —  the  sodden,  valueless  heart  of  that 
old  man,  whose  gold  has  sucked  out  all  that  made  him 
a  man,  beats  with  a  pulse  of  generous  honor  ;  even  in 
the  dust  of  stocks  and  the  ashes  of  speculation,  amid 
the  howling  curses  of  the  poor  and  the  bitter  weeping 
of  his  own  flesh,  once  he  hears  the  Voice  of  God,  and 
all  eternity  cleaves  the  earth  at  his  feet  with  a  glare  of 
truth.  Once  in  her  loathsome  life,  that  woman,  brazen 
with  sin  and  shame,  flaunting  on  the  pavement,  the 
scorn  and  jest  of  decency  and  indecency,  the  fearful 
index  of  corrupt  society,  —  even  she  has  her  hour  of 
softness,  when  the  tiny  grass  that  creeps  out  from  the 
stones  greenly  into  a  spring  sunshine,  and  as  with  a 
divine  whisper  recalls  to  her  the  time  before  she  fell, 
the  unburdened  heart,  the  pure  childish  pleasures,  the 
kind  look  of  her  dead  mother's  eye,  the  clasp  of  that 
sister's  arm  who  passed  her  but  yesterday  pallid  with 
disgust  and  ashamed  to  own  their  sacred  birth-tie  :  then 
the  tide  rolls  back ;  the  hour  is  come  !  She,  too,  called 
a  woman,  who  leads  society,  and  triumphs  over  caste 
and  custom  with  metallic  ring  and  force,  —  she  who 
forgets  the  decencies  of  age  in  her  shameless  attire, 
and  supplies  its  defects  with  subterfuges,  falser  in  heart 
even  than  in  aspect,  —  she,  about  whom  cluster  men 
old  and  young,  applauding  with  brays  of  laughter  and 
coarser  jeers  the  rancor  of  her  wit,  as  it  drops  it's 
laughing  venom  or  its  sneering  sophisms  of  worldly 
wisdom, —  even  she,  when  the  lights  are  fled,  when  the 
music  has  ceased  from  its  own  desecration,  when  the 
frenzy  of  wine  and  laughter  mock  her  in  their  dead 
dregs,  when  the  men  who  flattered  and  the  women  who 
envied  are  all  gone,  —  she  recalls  one  calm  eye  in  the 
crowd,  that  stung  her  with  its  pure,  contemptuous  pit}-, 


14  THE  SPHINXES   CHILDREN. 

a  look  not  to  be  shut  out  with  draperies  as  the  stars 
are ;  and  even  through  her  soul,  harder  than  the  soul 
of  that  unowned  sister  walking  the  midnight  street  be 
neath  the  window,  since  it  has  ceased  to  know  the  stab 
of  sin  or  the  choking  agony  of  shame,  —  even  through 
that  world-trodden  heart  flashes  one  conscious  pang, 
one  glimpse  of  a  possible  heaven  and  an  inevitable  hell, 
one  naked  and  open  vision  of  herself. 

Long  had  the  Sphinx  waited.  Year  after  year  the 
flocking  pigeons  flitted  and  wheeled  through  the  sweet 
skies  of  spring,  built  their  nesls  and  reared  their 
young ;  tiny  lizards,  the  new  birth  of  the  season, 
coiled  and  glittered  on  the  hot  sands  like  wandering 
jewels  ;  every  creature,  dying  out  of  conscious  life, 
left  its  perpetuated  self  behind  it,  and  repeated  its 
own  youth  in  its  young,  according  to  its  kind  :  but  the 
Sphinx  lived  alone.  Nor  all-unconscious  of  her  soli 
tude  :  for  he  who  formed  that  massive  shape,  chiselled 
those  calm,  expectant  lips,  and  wide  eyes  pensive  as 
setting  moons,  he  had  not  failed  to  do  what  all  true 
artists  do  in  virtue  of  their  truth,  —  he  had  shared  his 
own  life  with  his  own  creation,  and  it  was  his  lonely 
yearning  that  stirred  her  pulseless  heart.  Little  did 
he  think,  toiling  at  that  stupendous  figure,  ages  gone  by, 
that  he  transfused  into  the  stone  at  which  he  labored, 
like  a  patient  ant  at  some  stupendous  burden,  no  little 
share  of  that  creative  yearning  that  inspired  him  to  his 
task ;  as  little  as  you  think,  dear  poet,  whether  poet, 
painter,  or  sculptor,  —  for  all  are  one,  and  one  is  all, — 
that  in  those  dreams  which  you  write,  as  unconscious  of 
your  power  as  the  transcribing  stylus  of  its  office,  3*our 
own  heart  pulsates  for  a  listening  world,  and  the  very 
linking  of  words  that  so  respire  their  own  music  makes 


THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN.  15 

those  words  self-sentient  of  their  breaking,  thrilling 
melody,  and  wrings  or  exalts  them,  idea-garments  as 
they  are,  with  the  restless  heaving  of  the  thought  that 
wears  them. 

Or  3rou,  whose  sun-steeped  brush  brings  to  life  on 
canvas  the  golden  trances  of  August  noons,  the  high, 
still  splendor  of  its  mountain-tops,  which  the  sun 
caresses  with  fiery  languor,  the  unrippled  slumber  of 
its  warm  streams,  the  broad  glory  of  its  woods  and 
meadows  fused  with  light  and  heat  into  the  resplendent 
haze  that  earth  exhales  in  her  day  of  prime,  till  he 
who  sees  the  picture  hears  the  cricket's  chirping  in 
its  moveless  grasses  and  scents  the  rich,  aromatic 
breath  of  its  summer  passion  and  its  rapturous  noon, 
—  do  you  dream,  when  at  last  the  perfect  work  repeats 
your  thought,  and  you  rest  in  the  tropic  atmosphere 
you  have  created,  that  in  very  truth  the  picture  itself 
is  full  of  inward  heat  and  breathless  languor?  For 
you  have  poured  out  the  colors  that  light  makes  out  of 
heat,  and  in  them  the  still  inevitable  light  shall  ever 
stir  the  recreating  heat  that  clothes  itself  in  color,  and 
bring  your  thought,  no  more  a  dead  abstraction,  but  a 
living  power,  into  the  very  substance  whereby  you 
have  expressed  it.  And  even  so  far  as  you  were 
creative,  so  shall  your  work  be  informed  by  you,  and 
not  mere  dead  pigment  and  dried  oil  and  dull  canvas 
be  your  autograph,  but  the  vivid  and  inspiring  blazon 
of  an  inspired  idea  shall  glow  life-like  on  some  friendly 
wall,  and  in  its  turn  inspire  some  other  soul,  whose 
light  within  needs  but  the  breath  from  without  to  burst 
upward  in  clear  flame. 

Or  you,  who  unveil  from  its  marble  tomb  that  figure 
of  a  chained  and  stainless  woman,  whose  atmosphere 


16  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

is  as  a  nun's  veil,  whose  sad  divinity  is  a  crown,  — do 
you  dare  imagine  that  the  holy  despair  you  have 
imaged,  the  pause  of  a  saint's  resignation  and  a  martyr's 
courage,  is  but  the  outline  and  the  faultless  contour  of 
a  stone?  Come  back,  Pygmalion,  from  your  mythic 
sleep  !  return,  Art's  divinest  mystery,  germ  of  all  its 
power,  from  the  deep  dust  of  ages  !  and  teach  these 
modern  men  that  his  story,  whose  passion  fired  a  statue's 
breast,  was  but  an  immortal  fable,  a  similitude  of  the 
truth  you  feel,  but  do  not  see, — that  even  as  our 
Creator  shared  his  life  with  his  creatures,  so  do  you 
pour,  in  far  less  measure,  but  obedient  to  that  prece 
dent  which  is  law,  your  own  life  and  the  magnetic  in 
stincts  of  that  life,  into  what  you  create  ! 

Keep  your  hearts  pure  and  your  hands  clean,  there 
fore  ;  for  these  things  that  you  sell  for  dead  shall  one 
day  livingly  confront  you,  and  tell  their  own  story  of 
your  life  and  your  nature  with  terrible  honesty  to  men 
and  angels. 

But  whoever,  in  those  mystic  ages  that  have  ceased 
to  be  historic  and  have  become  mythic,  whoever  made 
the  Sphinx,  —  whether  it  were  some  Titaness  seques 
tered  from  all  her  kind  by  genie-spells,  forced  to  live 
amid  these  desert  solitudes  fed  from  the  abundant 
hands  of  Nature,  and  taught  by  dreams  inspired  and 
twilight  visions,  — 

"  A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall  — 
And  most  divinely  fair," 

her  only  image  of  human  beauty  the  reflex  of  her 
white,  symmetric  limbs,  her  wide,  dark  eyes,  her  full 
lips  and  soft  Egyptian  features,  wherewith  the  river 
greeted  her  from  its  blue  placidity ;  her  only  sense 


THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN.  17 

of  love  the  unspoken  yearning  within,  when  the  soft, 
tumultuous  stress  of  the  west  wind  kissed  her,  who 
should  have  been  clasped  in  tender  arms  and  caressed 
by  loving  lips ;  whose  dumb,  creative  instincts,  be 
coming  genius  instead  of  maternity,  struggled  out 
ward  from  their  home  in  heart  and  brain  to  culminate 
in  this  world's  wonder,  and  so  build  a  monument 
namelessly  splendid  to  the  grand  nature  that  found 
its  bread  of  life  was  a  stone  and  perished ;  or  whether 
this  creature  were  the  fashioning  of  some  demigod,  — 
"for  there  were  giants  in  those  days,"  —  who,  in  the 
fulness  of  his  strength,  despairing  of  a  mortal  mate, 
wandered  away  from  men  and  wrought  his  patience 
and  his  longing  into  the  rock,  —  as  lesser  men  have 
carved  their  memorials  on  hard  Fate,  —  and  then 
died  between  its  paws,  sated  with  labor  and  glad  to 
sleep ;  or  whether,  indeed,  the  captive  spirits,  sealed 
in  Caucasus  with  the  seal  of  Solomon,  did  penance 
for  their  rebellion  in  mortal  work  on  mere  dull  matter, 
and  with  anguished  essence  toiled  for  ages  to  mimic 
in  her  own  clay  the  dumb  pathos  of  waiting  Earth ;  — 
whichever  of  these  dreams  be  nearest  truth,  one 
thing  is  true,  — that  the  maker  of  the  Sphinx  infused 
into  his  work,  in  as  much  greater  measure  as  his 
nature  was  greater  than  that  of  other  men,  that  yearn 
ing  of  pathetic  solitude  that  most  wrings  a  woman's 
heart ;  and  the  outward  semblance,  working  in,  wrought 
upon  the  heavy  stone  with  incessant  and  accumulative 
power,  till  through  that  sluggish  sandstone  crept  a 
confused  thrill  of  consciousness,  and  the  great  creature 
felt  the  loneliness  that  she  looked.  Far  away  below 
her  the  Nile  valley  teemed  with  life ;  the  antelopes 
coursed  beside  their  young  to  feed  on  the  green  past- 


18  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

ure  fresh  from  its  long  overflow ;  red  foxes  sported 
with  their  cubs  on  the  tawny  sand ;  the  birds  taught 
their  infant  offspring  their  own  sweet  arts  of  flight  and 
song  on  every  bough ;  and  even  the  ostrich,  lonely 
Desert-runner,  heaped  her  treasure  of  white  eggs  in 
the  sand,  or  guided  her  callow  young  far  from  the 
sight  and  fear  of  man ;  —  but  the  Sphinx  sat  alone. 

Mightier  and  mightier  grew  the  yearning  within  her, 
as  the  full  moon  floated  upward  from  the  east  and  cast 
her  dewy  dreams  over  land  and  sea.  The  hour  was 
come ;  the  whole  impulse  and  persistence  of  her  nature 
went  out  in  vivid  life,  and,  filling  the  very  stones  which 
the  winds  had  gathered  and  piled  against  her  breast, 
cleft  them  with  its  sentient  spell,  clothed  them  with 
lean  flesh  and  wiry  sinews,  shaped  them  after  the 
fashion  of  the  Desert  men,  and  sent  them  out  alive 
with  intellect  and  will,  but  with  hearts  of  flint,  into  the 
wide  world,  — the  Sphinx's  children  ! 

With  a  sigh  that  shook  the  shores  of  Egypt  and 
smote  the  Sicilian  midnight  with  sickening  vibrations 
of  earthquake,  the  Sphinx  beheld  this  culmination  of 
her  great  desire ;  in  the  very  hour  of  fruition  hope 
fled ;  and  as  this  grim  certainty  sped  away  from  before 
her,  taking  with  it  all  her  borrowed  life,  she  dropped 
that  majestic  head  lower  upon  her  bosom,  uplifted  it 
again  for  one  last  look  at  her  offspring,  and  so 
stiffened, —  once  more  a  stone. 

Age  after  age  roiled  by ;  storm  and  tempest  hurled 
their  thunders  at  her  head  ;  wave  after  wave  of  bright, 
insidious  sand  curled  about  her  feet  and  heaped  its 
sliding  grains  against  her  side  ;  men  came  and  went  in 
fleeting  generations,  and  seasons  fled  like  hours  through 
the  whirling  wheel  of  Time  ;  but  the  Sphinx  longed  and 


THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN.  19 

Buffered  no  more.  Her  hour  had  come  and  gone  ;  her 
dull  instinct  had  burnt  out,  her  comely  outline  began 
to  disintegrate,  her  face  grew  blank  and  stony,  her 
features  crumbled  away,  altars  and  inscriptions  defaced 
her  breast  and  hieroglyphed  her  ponderous  sides,  men 
worshipped  and  wondered  there,  and  travellers  from 
lands  beyond  the  sun  pitched  their  tents  before  her  face 
and  defiled  her  feet  with  barbaric  orgies  ;  but  she  knew 
it  no  more,  — her  children  were  gone  out  into  the  world. 
And  the  world  had  need  of  them.  It»rank  and  miasmatic 
civilization,  —  its  hot-beds  of  sin  and  misery  —  its  civil 
corruptions  and  its  social  lies,  —  its  reeling,  rotten 
principalities,  —  its  sickly  atmosphere  of  effeminate 
luxury,  wherein  neither  justice  nor  judgment  lived,  and 
the  solitary  virtues  left  mere  effete  shadows  of  phi 
lanthropy  and  cowardly  impulses  called  love  and  mercy, 
—  needed  a  new  race,  stony  and  strong,  unshrinking 
in  conquest  and  reformation,  full  of  zeal,  and  incapable 
of  pity,  to  rend  away  the  fogs  that  smothered  truth 
and  decency,  to  disperse  the  low-lying  clouds  of  weak 
passion  and  maudlin  luxury,  to  blow  a  reveille  clear 
and  keen  as  the  trumpet  of  the  north-west  wind,  when 
it  sweeps  down  from  its  mountain-tops  in  stern  exulta 
tion,  and  shouts  its  Puritanic  battle-psalm  across  the 
reeking,  steaming  meadows  of  sultry  August,  fever- 
smitten  and  pestilent. 

Such  were  the  Sphinx's  children  :  had  they  but  died 
out  with  their  need !  Here  and  there  a  monk,  fresh 
from  his  Desert-Laura,  hurtles  through  the  eclipse-light 
of  history  like  the  stone  from  a  catapult,  —  rules  a 
church  with  iron  rods,  organizes,  denounces,  intrigues, 
executes,  keeps  an  unarmed  soldiery  to  do  his  behests, 
and  hurls  ecclesiastic  thunders  at  kings  and  emperors 


20  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

with  the  grand  audacity  of  a  commission  presumedly 
divine,  while  Greeks  cringe,  and  Jews  blaspheme,  and 
heathen  flee  into,  or  away  from,  conversion ;  and  the 
church  itself  canonizes  this  spiritual  father,  this  Sphinx- 
son  of  an  instinct  and  a  stone  ! 

Or  an  Emperor  exalted  himself  above  the  legions  and 
the  populace  of  Rome,  banqueted  his  enemies  and  be 
headed  them  at  table,  drank  in  the  sight  of  blood  and 
the  sound  of  human  shrieks  as  if  they  were  his  natural 
light  and  air,  tormented  God's  creatures  and  cursed  his 
kind,  kindled  a  fire  among  the  miserable  myriads  of  his 
own  city,  and,  exulting  in  a  safe  height,  mixed  the 
leaping,  frantic  discords  of  his  own  music  with  the 
horrid  sounds  of  the  hell's  tragedy  below  him  ;  seething 
in  crime,  steeped  in  murder,  black  with  blasphemy, 
the  horror  and  the  hate  of  men,  death  gaped  for  his 
coming,  and  he  went !  Men  revile  him  through  all 
posterior  ages ;  women  shudder  at  the  legend  of  his 
deeds ;  but  the  Sphinx  stands  unconscious  in  the 
Desert,  —  she  knew  not  her  child  ! 

Or  a  Reformer  springs  up.  High  above  his  birth 
place  the  snowy  Alps  paint  themselves  against  the 
sky,  an  aerial  dream  of  beauty,  softened  by  the  tender 
hues  of  dawn  aud  sunset,  serenely  fair  through  the 
rift  of  the  tempest ;  even  their  white  death  takes  a 
nameless  grace  from  distance  and  atmosphere,  cloth 
ing  itself  in  beauty  as  a  spirit  in  clay,  and  tempting 
wanderers  to  their  graves  :  but  no  such  beauty  clothes 
the  man  whose  daily  vision  beholds  them ;  hard,  clam 
orous,  disputatious,  with  one  hand  he  rends  the  rotten 
splendors  of  Rome  from  its  tottering  image,  and  with 
the  other  plunges  baby-souls  to  inevitable  damnation  ; 
strong  and  fiercely  rigid,  full  of  burning  and  slaughter 


THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN.  21 

for  the  idolatries  and  harlotries  of  Popery,  fired  with 
lurid  zeal,  and  bestriding  one  stringent  idea,  he  rides 
on  over  dead  and  living,  preaches  predestination  and 
hell  as  if  the  Gospel  dwelt  only  upon  destiny  and 
despair,  casts  no  tender  look  at  the  loving  piety  that 
underlay  shrines  and  woman-worship  and  bead-count 
ing  wherever  a  true  heart  sought  its  God  through 
the  sole  formulas  it  knew,  but  spurs  forward  to  the 
end,  a  mighty  power  to  destroy,  to  do  away  with  old 
corruptions  and  break  down  idols  on  their  altars,  — 
saint  and  iconoclast !  Did  the  heart  of  stone  within 
him  know  its  ancestry,  — track  its  hard,  loveless  de 
scent  from  the  Sphinx's  children? 

Then  a  Queen  ;  —  a  solitary  woman,  proud  of  her 
solitude,  isolated  in  her  regnant  splendor,  a  dead 
planet  like  the  moon,  sung  and  pictured  and  adored, 
but  keeping  on  her  majestic  path  in  awful  beauty, 
deaf  to  human  entreaty,  cold  to  human  love ;  a  great 
statesman  in  a  queen's  robes  ;  a  keen,  subtle  politician, 
coifed  and  farthingaled ;  a  revengeful  sovereign ;  a 
deadly  enemy ;  a  woman  who  forgave  nothing  to 
a  woman,  and  retaliated  everything  upon  a  man ; 
she  who  brought  unshrinkingly  to  death  a  sister 
queen  discrowned  and  captive,  a  sister  whose 
grace  and  loveliness  and  kindly  aspect  might  have 
moved  the  lions  of  the  arena  to  fawn  upon  her,  but 
nowise  disarmed  the  tigress  who  lapped  her  blood ; 
she  who  banished  and  slew  the  man  she  would  not 
stoop  to  love,  because  he  dared  to  love  another ;  and 
when  death  stared  her  in  the  face,  and  open-eyed 
judgment  shook  her  soul,  rose  from  that  death-pallet 
to  grapple  and  abuse  a  false  woman,  penitent  for  and 
confessing  her  falseness ;  a  virgin  monarch,  pitiless, 


22  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

relentless,  cruel  as  jealousy ;  an  anomalous  woman, 
were  she  not  a  stone-born  child  of  the  Sphinx  ! 

Or  a  great  General,  before  whose  iron  will  horse 
and  horseman  quailed  and  fled,  like  dry  stubble  before 
flame;  who  wielded  the  sword  of  Gideon,  and  cutoff 
the  armies  of  his  kindred  people  and  his  anointed 
king  as  a  mower  fells  the  glittering  grass  on  a  summer 
dawn,  heedless  that  he,  too,  shall  be  cut  down  from 
his  flourishing.  On  his  track  fire  and  blood  spread 
their  banners,  and  the  raven  scented  his  trophies  afar 
off ;  age  and  }'outh  alike  were  crushed  under  the  tread 
of  his  war-horse  ;  honor,  and  valor,  and  life's  best  prime, 
opposed  him  as  summer  opposes  the  Arctic  hail-fury, 
and  lay  beaten  into  mire  at  his  feet.  Hated,  feared, 
followed  to  the  death ;  victorious  or  vanquished,  the 
same  strong,  imperturbable,  sullen  nature  ;  persistent 
rather  than  patient  in  effort,  vigorously  direct  in  action  ; 
a  minister  of  unconscious  good,  of  half-conscious  evil ; 
stern  and  gloomy  to  the  sacrilegious  climax  of  his  well- 
battled  life,  even  in  the  regicidal  act  going  as  one 
driven  to  his  deeds  by  Fate  that  forgot  God  ;  —  was  he 
to  be  wondered  at,  whose  life,  in  ages  far  gone,  began 
among  the  stony  Sphinx  children? 

Nor  alone  in  these  great  landmarks  of  their  dwelling 
have  the  Sphinx's  children  haunted  Earth.  Poets  have 
sung  them  under  myriad  names  ;  History  has  chroni 
cled  them  in  groups ;  Painting  and  Sculpture  have 
handed  down  their  aspect  to  a  gazing  world.  From 
them  sprung  the  Eumenides,  pursuers  and  destroyers 
of  men.  They  wore  the  garb  of  Roman  legionaries, 
when  Ramah  wept  for  her  children  dashed  against  the 
•walls  of  the  Holy  City,  and  not  one  stone  stood  upon 
another  in  Zioii.  They  crowded  the  offices  of  the  In 
quisition,  and  tested  the  endurance  of  its  victims,  with 


THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN.  23 

steady  finger  on  the  flickering  pulse,  and  calm  eye  on 
the  death-sweating  brow  and  bitten  lip.  They  put  on 
the  Druid's  robe  and  wreath,  and  held  the  human  sacri 
fice  closer  to  its  altar.  In  the  Asiatic  jungle,  lurking 
behind  the  palm-trunk,  they  waited,  lithe  and  swarthy 
Thugs,  treacherously  to  slay  whatever  victim  passed 
by  alone ;  or  in  the  fair  Pacific  Islands  kept  horrid 
jubilee  above  their  feasts  of  human  flesh,  and  streaked 
themselves  with  kindred  blood  in  their  carousals.  Hol 
land  tells  its  fearful  story  of  their  Spanish  rule. 
Russian  serfs  record  their  despotism,  cowering  at  the 
memory  of  the  knout.  France  cringes  yet  at  the  names 
of  the  black  few  who  guided  her  roaring  Revolution  as 
one  might  guide  the  ravages  of  a  tiger  with  curb  of 
adamant  and  rein  of  linked  steel. 

Africa  stretches  out  her  hands  to  testify  of  their 
presence.  Too  well  those  golden  shores  recall  the 
wail  of  women  and  the  yelling  curses  of  men,  driven, 
beast-fashion,  to  their  pen,  and  floated  from  home  to 
hell,  or — happier  fate! — dragged  up,  in  terror  of 
pursuit,  and  thrown  overboard,  a  brief  agony  for  a  long 
one.  They  know  them,  too,  whose  continual  cry  of 
separation,  starvation,  insult,  agony,  and  death  rises 
from  the  heart  of  freedom  like  the  steam  of  a  great 
pestilence.  Pity  them,  hearts  of  flesh !  pit}'  also  the 
captors, — the  Sphinx  children,  the  flint-hearts!  pity 
those  who  cannot  feel,  far  be}7ond  those  who  can,  — 
though  it  be  but  to  suffer  ! 

New  England  knew  them,  in  band  and  steeple-hat, 
hanging  and  pressing  to  death  helpless  women,  be 
witched  with  witchcraft.  Acadia  knew  them,  when  its 
depopulated  shores  lay  barren  before  the  sun,  and  its 
homes  sent  up  no  smoke  to  heaven. 

Greece  quivers   at   the    phantasm  of  their   Turkish 


24  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

turbans  and  gleaming  sabres,  their  skill  at  massacre 
and  their  fiendish  tortures ;  Italy,  fair  and  sad, 
"  woman  country,"  droops  shuddering  at  sight  of  their 
Austrian  uniforms ;  and  the  Brahmin  sees  them  in 
scarlet,  blood-dyed,  hurling  from  the  cannon's  mouth 
helpless  captives, — killing,  not  converting. 

Wherever,  all  the  wide  world  over,  a  nation  shrinks 
from  its  oppressors,  or  a  slave  from  its  master,  — 
wherever  a  child  flees  from  the  face  of  a  parent  who 
knows  neither  justice  nor  mercy,  or  a  wife  goes  mad 
under  the  secret  tyranny  of  her  inevitable  fate,  — 
wherever  pity  and  mercy  and  love  veil  their  faces  and 
wring  their  hands  outside  the  threshold,  —  there  abide 
the  Sphinx's  children. 

For  this  she  longed  and  hoped  and  waited  in  the 
desert !  for  this  she  envied  the  red  fox  and  the  ostrich  ! 
for  this  her  dumb  lips  parted,  in  their  struggle  after 
speech,  to  ask  of  earth  and  air  some  solace  to  her  soli 
tude  !  for  this,  for  these,  she  poured  out  her  dim  life 
in  one  strong,  wilful  aspiration  ! 

Happy  Sphinx,  to  be  left  even  of  that  dull  existence  ! 
blessedly  unconscious  of  that  granted  desire  !  moulder 
ing  away  in  the  curling  sand-hills,  the  prey  of  hostile 
elements,  the  mysterious  symbol  of  a  secret  yearning 
and  a  vain  desire  !  Not  for  thee  the  bitterness  of  suc 
cess  !  not  for  thee  the  conscious  agony  of  penitence,  — 
the  falling  temple  of  the  will  crushing  its  idolater !  No 
wild  voices  in  the  wind  reproach  the  wilder  pulses  of  a 
slow-breaking  heart ;  no  keen  words  of  taunt  sting  thee 
into  madness  ;  Memory  hurls  at  thee  no  flying  javelins  ; 
broken-winged  Hope  flutters  about  thee  no  more ! 
Thy  day  is  over,  thine  hour  is  past ! 

"  Wherefore  I  praised  the  dead  which  are  already 
dead,  more  than  the  living  which  are  yet  alive ! " 


THE  DEACON'S   WEEK.  25 


THE  DEACON'S  WEEK. 


THE  communion  service  of  January  was  just  over  in 
the  church  at  Sugar  Hollow  ;  and  people  were  waiting 
for  Mr.  Parkes  to  give  out  the  hymn  ;  but  he  did  not 
give  it  out,  —  he  laid  his  book  down  on  the  table,  and 
looked  about  on  his  church. 

He  was  a  man  of  simplicity  and  sincerity,  fully  in 
earnest  to  do  his  Lord's  work,  and  do  it  with  all  his 
might ;  but  he  did  sometimes  feel  discouraged.  His 
congregation  was  a  mixture  of  farmers  and  mechanics, 
for  Sugar  Hollow  was  cut  in  two  by  Sugar  Brook,  —  a 
brawling,  noisy  stream  that  turned  the  wheel  of  many 
a  mill  and  manufactory  ;  yet  on  the  hills  around  it  there 
was  still  a  scattered  population,  eating  their  bread  in 
the  full  perception  of  the  primeval  curse.  So  he  had 
to  contend  with  the  keen  brain  and  sceptical  comment 
of  the  men  who  piqued  themselves  on  power  to  hammer 
at  theological  problems  as  well  as  hot  iron,  with  the 
jealousy  and  repulsion  and  bitter  feeling  that  has  bred 
the  communistic  hordes  abroad  and  at  home ;  while 
perhaps  he  had  a  still  harder  task  to  awaken  the 
sluggish  souls  of  those  who  used  their  days  to  struggle 
with  barren  hill-side  and  rocky  pasture  for  mere  food 
and  clothing,  and  their  nights  to  sleep  the  dull  sleep  of 
plrysical  fatigue  and  mental  vacuit}'. 

It  seemed  sometimes  to  Mr.  Parkes  that  nothing  but 


26  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

the  trump  of  Gabriel  could  arouse  his  people  from  their 
sins  and  make  them  believe  on  the  Lord  and  follow  his 
footsteps.  To-day  —  no  —  a  long  time  before  to-day  — 
he  had  mused  and  prayed  till  an  idea  took  shape  in  his 
thought,  and  now  he  was  to  put  it  in  practice  ;  yet  he 
felt  peculiarly  responsible  and  solemnized  as  he  looked 
about  him  and  foreboded  the  success  of  his  experiment. 
Then  there  flashed  across  him,  as  words  of  Scripture 
will  come  back  to  the  habitual  Bible-reader,  the  noble 
utterance  of  Gamaliel  concerning  Peter  and  his  brethren 
when  they  stood  before  the  council:  "  If  this  counsel 
or  this  work  be  of  men,  it  will  come  to  naught :  but  if 
it  be  of  God  ye  cannot  overthrow  it."  So  with  a  sense 
of  strength  the  minister  spoke. 

"  My  dear  friends,"  he  said,  "  you  all  know,  though 
I  did  not  give  any  notice  to  that  effect,  that  this  week 
is  the  Week  of  Prayer.  I  have  a  mind  to  ask  you  to 
make  it  for  this  once  a  week  of  practice  instead.  I 
think  we  may  discover  some  things,  some  of  the  things 
of  God,  in  this  manner,  that  a  succession  of  prayer- 
meetings  would  not  perhaps  so  thoroughly  reveal  to  us. 
Now  when  I  say  this  I  don't  mean  to  have  you  go 
home  and  vaguely  endeavor  to  walk  straight  in  the  old 
way ;  I  want  you  to  take  '  topics,'  as  they  are  called, 
for  the  prayer-meetings.  For  instance,  Monday  is 
prayer  for  the  temperance  work.  Try  all  that  day  to  be 
temperate  in  speech,  in  act,  in  indulgence  of  any  kind 
that  is  hurtful  to  you.  The  next  day  is  for  Sunday- 
schools  ;  go  and  visit  your  scholars,  such  of  you  as  are 
teachers,  and  try  to  feel  that  they  have  living  souls  to 
save.  "Wednesday  is  a  day  for  fellowship  meeting  ;  we 
are  cordially  invited  to  attend  a  union-meeting  of  this 
sort  at  Bantam.  Few  of  us  can  go  twenty-five  miles 


THE  DEACON'S   WEEK.  27 

to  be  with  our  brethren  there  ;  let  us  spend  that  day  in 
cultivating  our  brethren  here  ;  let  us  go  and  see  those 
who  have  been  cold  to  us  for  some  reason,  heal  up  our 
breaches  of  friendship,  confess  our  shortcomings  one 
to  another,  and  act  as  if,  in  our  Master's  words,  '  all 
ye  are  brethren.' 

"  Thursday  is  the  day  to  pray  for  the  family  rela 
tion  ;  let  us  each  try  to  be  to  our  families  on  that  day 
in  our  measure  what  the  Lord  is  to  his  family,  the 
church,  remembering  the  words,  '  Fathers,  provoke 
not  your  children  to  anger ; '  '  Husbands,  love  your 
wives,  and  be  not  bitter  against  them.'  These  are 
texts  rarely  commented  upon,  I  have  noticed,  in  our 
conference  meetings ;  we  are  more  apt  to  speak  of 
the  obedience  due  from  children,  and  the  submission 
and  meekness  our  wives  owe  us,  forgetting  that  duties 
are  always  reciprocal. 

"Friday,  the  church  is  to  be  pra}*ed  for.  Let  us 
then,  each  for  himself,  try  to  act  that  day  just  as  we 
think  Christ,  our  great  Exemplar,  would  have  acted  in 
our  places.  Let  us  try  to  prove  to  ourselves  and  the 
world  about  us  that  we  have  not  taken  upon  us  his 
name  lightly  or  in  vain.  Saturday  is  prayer-day  for 
the  heathen  and  foreign  missions.  Brethren,  you  know 
and  I  know  that  there  are  heathen  at  our  doors  here ; 
let  every  one  of  you  who  will,  take  that  day  to  preach 
the  gospel  to  some  one  who  does  not  hear  it  anj'where 
else.  Perhaps  you  will  find  work  that  ye  knew  not  of 
lying  in  your  midst.  And  let  us  all,  on  Saturday 
evening,  meet  here  again,  and  choose  some  one  brother 
to  relate  his  experience  of  the  week.  You  who  are 
willing  to  try  this  method  please  to  rise." 

Everybody  rose  except  old  Amos  Tucker,  who  never 


28  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

stirred,  though  his  wife  pulled  at  him  and  whispered 
to  him  imploringly.  He  only  shook  his  grizzled  head 
and  sat  immovable. 

"  Let  us  sing  the  doxology,"  said  Mr.  Parkes  ;  and 
it  was  sung  with  full  fervor.  The  new  idea  had  roused 
the  church  full}* ;  it  was  something  fixed  and  positive 
to  do ;  it  was  the  lever-point  Archimedes  longed  for, 
and  each  felt  ready  and  strong  to  move  a  world. 

Saturday  night  the  church  assembled  again.  The 
cheerful  eagerness  was  gone  from  their  faces ;  they 
looked  downcast,  troubled,  weary,  —  as  the  pastor  ex 
pected.  When  the  box  for  ballots  was  passed  about, 
each  one  tore  a  bit  of  paper  from  the  sheet  placed  in 
the  hymn-books  for  that  purpose,  and  wrote  on  it  a 
name.  The  pastor  said,  after  he  had  counted  them  :  — 

"  Deacon  Emmons,  the  lot  has  fallen  on  .you." 

"  I'm  sorry  for't,"  said  the  deacon,  rising  up  and 
taking  off  his  overcoat.  "I  haiut  got  the  best  of 
records,  Mr.  Parkes,  now  I  tell  ye." 

"  That  isn't  what  we  want,"  said  Mr.  Parkes.  "  We 
want  to  know  the  whole  experience  of  some  one  among 
us,  and  we  know  you  will  not  tell  us  either  more  or  less 
than  what  you  did  experience." 

Deacon  Emmons  was  a  short,  thick-set  man,  with  a 
shrewd,  kindly  face  and  gra}T  hair,  who  kept  the  village 
store,  and  had  a  well-earned  reputation  for  honesty. 

"  Well,  brethren,"  he  said,  "I  dono  why  I  shouldn't 
tell  it.  I  am  pretty  well  ashamed  of  myself,  no  doubt, 
but  I  ought  to  be,  and  maybe  I  shall  profit  by  what 
I've  found  out  these  six  days  back.  I'll  tell  you  just 
as  it  come.  Monday,  I  looked  about  me  to  begin  with. 
I  "am  amazin'  fond  of  coffee,  and  it  aint  good  for  me 
—  the  doctor  says  it  aint ;  but,  dear  me,  it  does  set  a 


THE  DEACON'S   WEEK.  29 

man  up  good,  cold  mornings,  to  have  a  cup  of  hot, 
sweet,  tasty  drink,  and  I  haven't  had  the  grit  to 
refuse.  I  knew  it  made  me  what  folks  call  nervous,  and 
I  call  cross,  before  night  come  ;  and  I  knew  it  fetched 
on  spells  of  low  spirits,  when  our  folks  couldn't  get  a 
word  out  of  me,  —  not  a  good  one,  any  way ;  so  I 
thought  I'd  try  on  that  to  begin  with.  I  tell  you  it 
come  hard !  I  hankered  after  that  drink  of  coffee 
dreadful !  Seemed  as  though  I  couldn't  eat  my  break 
fast  without  it.  I  feel  to  pity  a  man  that  loves  liquor 
more'n  I  ever  did  in  my  life  before ;  but  I  feel  sure 
they  can  stop  if  they  try,  for  I've  stopped,  and  I'm 
a-goin'  to  stay  stopped. 

"  Well,  come  to  dinner,  there  was  another  fight.  I 
do  set  by  pie  the  most  of  anything  ;  I  was  fetched  up 
on  pie,  as  you  may  say.  Our  folks  always  had  it 
three  times  a  da}',  and  the  doctor,  he's  been  talkin'  and 
talkin'  to  me  about  eatin'  pie.  I  have  the  dyspepsy 
like  everything,  and  it  makes  me  useless  by  spells,  and 
on  reliable  as  a  weathercock.  An'  Doctor  Drake  he 
says  there  won't  nothing  help  me  but  to  diet.  I  was 
readin'  the  Bible  that  morning,  while  I  sat  waiting  for 
breakfast,  for  'twas  Monday,  and  wife  was  kind  of  set 
back  with  washin'  and  all,  and  I  come  aerost  that  part 
where  it  says  that  the  bodies  of  Christians  are  temples 
of  the  Holy  Ghost.  Well,  thinks  I,  we'd  ought  to 
take  care  of  'em  if  they  be,  and  see  that  they're  kep' 
clean  and  pleasant,  like  the  church ;  and  nobody  can 
be  clean  nor  pleasant  that  has  dyspepsy.  But,  come 
to  pie,  I  felt  as  though  I  couldn't !  and,  lo  ye,  I  didn't ! 
I  eet  a  piece  right  against  my  conscience  ;  facin'  what 
I  knew  I  ought  to  do,  I  went  and  done  what  I  ought 
not  to.  I  tell  ye  my  conscience  made  music  of  me 


30  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

consider'ble,  and  I  said  then  I  wouldn't  never  sneer  at 
a  drinkin'  man  no  more  when  he  slipped  up.  I'd  feel 
for  him  and  help  him,  for  I  see  just  how  it  was.  So 
that  day's  practice  giv'  out,  but  it  learnt  me  a  good  deal 
more'n  I  knew  before. 

"  I  started  out  next  day  to  look  up  my  Bible-class. 
They  haven't  really  tended  up  to  Sunday-school  as  they 
ought  to,  along  back  ;  but  I  was  busy,  here  and  there, 
and  there  didn't  seem  to  be  a  real  chance  to  get  to  it. 
Well,  'twould  take  the  evenin'  to  tell  it  all ;  but  I  found 
one  real  sick,  been  abed  for  three  weeks,  and  was  so 
glad  to  see  me  that  I  felt  fair  ashamed.  Seemed  as 
though  I  heerd  the  Lord  for  the  first  time  say  in',  '  In 
asmuch  as  ye  did  it  not  to  one  of  the  least  of  these,  ye 
did  it  not  to  me.'  Then  another  man's  old  mother  says 
to  me  before  he  come  in  from  the  shed,  says  she,  'He's 
been  a-sayin'  that  if  folks  practised  what  they  preached 
you'd  ha'  come  round  to  look  him  up  afore  now,  but  he 
reckoned  you  kinder  looked  down  on  mill-hands.  I'm 
awful  glad  you  come.'  Brethring,  so  was  I!  I  tell  you 
that  day's  work  done  me  good.  I  got  a  poor  opinion 
of  Josiah  Emmons,  now  I  tell  ye  ;  but  I  learned  more 
about  the  Lord's  wisdom  than  a  month  o'  Sundays  ever 
showed  me." 

A  smile  he  could  not  repress  passed  overMr.Parkes's 
earnest  face.  The  deacon  had  forgotten  all  external 
issues  in  coming  so  close  to  the  heart  of  things  ;  but 
the  smile  passed  as  he  said  :  — 

"  Brother  Emmons,  do  you  remember  what  the 
Master  said,  — '  If  any  man  will  do  His  will,  he  shall 
know  of  the  doctrine,  whether  it  be  of  God,  or  whether 
I  speak  of  myself  '  ?" 

"  "Well,  it's  so,"  answered  the  deacon,  "  it's  so  right 


THE  DEACON'S   WEEK.  31 

along.  Why,  I  never  thought  so  much  of  my  Bible- 
class,  nor  took  no  sech  int'rest  in  'em  as  I  do  to-day,  — 
not  since  I  begun  to  teach.  I  b'lieve  they'll  come  more 
reg'lar  now,  too. 

"  Now  come  fellowship-day.  I  thought  that  would 
be  all  plain  sailin' ;  seemed  as  though  I'd  got  warmed 
up  till  I  felt  pleasant  towardst  everybody  ;  so  I  went 
around  seein'  folks  that  was  neighbors,  and  'twas  easy  ; 
but  when  I  come  home  at  noon  spell,  Philury  says,  says 
she,  "  Square  Tucker's  black  bull  is  into  th'  orchard 
a-tearin'  round,  and  he's  knocked  two  lengths  o'  fence 
down  flat ! '  Well,  the  old  Adam  riz  up  then,  you'd 
better  b'lieve.  That  black  bull  has  been  a-breakin' 
into  my  lots  ever  sence  we  got  in  th'  aftermath,  and  it's 
Square  Tucker's  fence,  and  he  won't  make  it  bull- 
strong,  as  he'd  onghter,  and  that  orchard  was  a  young 
one  jest  comin'  to  bear,  and  all  the  new  wood  crisp  as 
cracklin's  with  frost.  You'd  better  b'lieve  I  didn't 
have  much  feller-feelin'  with  Amos  Tucker.  I  jest  put 
over  to  his  house  and  spoke  up  pretty  free  to  him, 
when  he  looked  up  and  says,  says  he,  '  Fellowship- 
meetin'  day,  aint  it,  deacon  ? '  I'd  ruther  he'd  ha' 
slapped  m}-  face.  I  felt  as  though  I  should  like  to  slip 
behind  the  door.  I  see  pretty  distinct  what  sort  of 
life  I'd  been  livin'  all  the  years  I'd  been  a  professor, 
when  I  couldn't  hold  on  to  my  tongue  and  temper  one 
day!" 

"  Breth-e-rcn,"  interrupted  a  slow,  harsh  voice, 
somewhat  broken  with  emotion,  "I'll  tell  the  rest  on't. 
Josiah  Emmons  come  around  like  a  man  an'  a  Chris 
tian  right  there.  He  asked  me  for  to  forgive  him,  and 
not  to  think  'twas  the  fault  of  his  religion,  because  'twas 
hisn  and  nothin'  else.  I  think  more  of  him  today  than 


32  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

I  ever  done  before.  I  was  one  that  wouldn't  say  I'd 
practise  with  the  rest  of  ye.  I  thought  'twas  ever- 
lastin'  nonsense.  I'd  ruther  go  to  forty-nine  prayer- 
meetin's  than  work  at  bein'  good  a  week.  I  b'lieve  my 
hope  has  been  one  of  them  that  perish  ;  it  haint  worked, 
and  I  leave  it  behind  to-day.  I  mean  to  begin  honest, 
and  it  was  seein'  one  honest  Christian  man  fetched  me 
round  to't." 

Amos  Tucker  sat  down  and  buried  his  grizzled  head 
in  his  rough  hands. 

"Bless  the  Lord!"  said  the  quavering  tones  of  a 
still  older  man  from  a  far  corner  of  the  house,  and 
many  a  glistening  eye  gave  silent  response. 

"  Go  on,  Brother  Emmons,"  said  the  minister. 

"Well,  when  next  day  come,  I  got  up  to  make  the 
fire,  and  my  boy  Joe  had  forgot  the  kindlin's.  I'd 
opened  my  mouth  to  give  him  Jesse,  when  it  come 
over  me  suddin  that  this  was  the  day  of  prayer  for  the 
family  relation.  I  thought  I  wouldn't  say  nothin'.  I  jest 
fetched  in  the  kindlin's  myself,  and  when  the  fire  burnt 
up  good  I  called  wife. 

"  '  Dear  me  ! '  says  she.  '  I've  got  such  a  headache, 
'Siah,  but  I'll  come  in  a  minnit.'  I  didn't  mind  that, 
for  women  are  always  havin'  aches,  and  I  was  jest 
a-goin'  to  say  so,  when  I  remembered  the  tex'  about 
not  bein'  bitter  against  'em,  so  I  says,  '  Philury,  you 
lay  abed.  I  expect  Emmy  and  me  can  get  the  vittles 
to-day.'  I  declare,  she  turned  over  and  give  me  sech 
a  look ;  why,  it  struck  right  in !  There  was  nry  wife, 
that  had  worked  for  an'  waited  on  me  twenty-odd  year, 
'most  scart  because  I  spoke  kind  of  feelin'  to  her.  I 
went  out  and  fetched  in  the  pail  o'  water  she'd  always 
drawed  herself,  and  then  I  milked  the  cow.  "When  I 


THE  DEACON'S   WEEK.  33 

come  in  Philury  was  up  fryin'  the  potatoes,  and  the 
tears  a-shiniu'  on  her  white  face.  She  didn't  say 
nothin',  she's  kinder  still ;  but  she  hadn't  no  need  to. 
I  felt  a  leetle  meaner'n  I  did  the  day  before.  But 
'twant  nothin'  to  my  condition  when  I  was  goin', 
towards  night,  down  the  sullar  stairs  for  some  apples, 
so's  the  children  could  have  a  roast,  and  I  heered  Joe, 
up  in  the  kitchen,  say  to  Emmy,  '  I  do  b'lieve,  Em,  pa's 
goin'  to  die.'  — '  Why,  Josiar  Emmons,  how  you  talk  ! 
— '  Well,  I  do  ;  he's  so  everlastin'  pleasant  an'  good- 
natered  I  can't  but  think  he's  struck  with  death.' 

"  I  tell  ye,  brethren,  I  set  right  down  on  them  sullar 
stairs  and  cried.  I  did,  reely.  Seemed  as  though  the  Lord 
had  turned  and  looked  at  me  jest  as  he  did  at  Peter. 
Why,  there  was  my  own  children  never  see  me  act  real 
fatherly  and  pretty  in  all  their  lives.  I'd  growled  and 
scolded  and  prayed  at  'em,  and  tried  to  fetch  'em  up, — 
jest  as  the  twig  is  bent  the  tree's  inclined,  ye  know,  — 
but  I  hadn't  never  thought  that  thej-'d  got  right  and 
reason  to  expect  I'd  do  my  part  as  well  as  they  theirn. 
Seemed  as  though  I  was  findin'  out  more  about  Josiah 
Emmons's  shortcomin's  than  was  real  agreeable. 

"  Come  around  Friday  I  got  back  to  the  store.  I'd 
kind  o'  left  it  to  the  boys  the  early  part  of  the  week, 
and  things  was  a  little  cuterin',  bat  I  did  have  sense 
not  to  tear  round  and  use  sharp  words  so  much  as 
common.  I  began  to  think  'twas  gettin'  easy  to 
practise  after  five  days,  when  in  come  Judge  Herrick's 
wife  after  some  curt' in  calico.  I  had  a  handsome 
piece,  all  done  off  with  roses  and  things,  but  there  was 
a  fault  in  the  weavin',  —  every  now  and  then  a  thin 
streak.  She  didn't  notice  it,  but  she  was  pleased  with 
the  figures  on't,  and  said  she'd  take  the  whole  piece. 


34  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

Well,  just  as  I  was  wrappin'  of  it  up,  what  Mr.  Parkes 
here  said  about  try  in'  to  act  jest  as  the  Lord  would  in 
our  place  come  acrost  me.  Why,  I  turned  as  red  as 
a  beet,  I  know  I  did.  It  made  me  all  of  a  tremble 
There  was  I,  a  door-keeper  in  the  tents  of  my  God,  as 
David  says,  really  cheatin',  and  cheatin'  a  woman.  I 
tell  ye,  brethren,  I  was  all  of  a  sweat.  '  Mis'  Herrick,' 
says  I,  '  I  don't  b'lieve  you've  looked  real  close  at  this 
goods  ;  'taint  thorough  wove,'  says  I.  So  she  didn't 
take  it ;  but  what  fetched  me  was  to  think  how  many 
times  I'd  done  sech  mean,  onreliable  little  things  to 
turn  a  penny,  and  all  the  time  sayin'  and  prayin'  that  I 
wanted  to  be  like  Christ.  I  kep'  a-trippiu'  of  myself 
up  all  day  jest  in  the  ordinary  business,  and  I  was  a 
peg  lower  down  when  night  come  than  I  was  a  Thurs 
day.  I'd  ruther,  as  far  as  the  hard  work  is  concerned, 
lay  a  mile  of  four-foot  stone  wall  than  undertake  to  do 
a  man's  livin'  Christian  duty  for  twelve  workin'  hours  ; 
and  the  heft  of  that  is,  it's  because  I  aint  used  to  it, 
and  I  ought  to  be. 

"  So  this  mornin'  come  around,  and  I  felt  a  mite 
more  cherk.  'Twas  missionary  mornin',  and  seemed 
as  if  'twas  a  sight  easier  to  preach  than  to  practise.  I 
thought  I'd  begin  to  old  Mis'  Vedder's.  So  I  put  a 
Testament  in  my  pocket  and  knocked  to  her  door. 
Says  I,  '  Good-mornin',  ma'am',  and  then  I  stopped. 
Words  seemed  to  hang,  somehow.  I  didn't  want  to 
pop  right  out  that  I'd  come  over  to  try'n  convert  her 
folks.  I  hemmed  and  swallered  a  little,  and  fin'lly  I 
said,  says  I, '  We  don't  see  you  to  meetin'  very  frequent, 
Mis'  Vedder.' 

"'No,  you  don't!'  ses'she,  as  quick  as  a  wink. 
'  I  stay  to  home  and  mind  my  business.' 


THE  DEACON'S   WEEK.  35 

"  '  "Well,  we  should  like  to  hev  y on  come  along  with 
us  and  do  ye  good,'  says  I,  sort  of  conciliatin'. 

"  '  Look  a  here,  deacon  ! '  she  snapped  ;  '  I've  lived 
alongside  of  you  fifteen  year,  and  you  knowed  I  never 
went  to  meetin'  ;  weaint  a  pious  lot,  and  you  knowed  it ; 
we're  poorer'n  death  and  uglier'n  sin.  Jim  he  drinks  and 
swears,  and  Malviny  dono  her  letters.  She  knows  a  heap 
she  hadn't  ought  to,  besides.  Now  what  are  you  a-comin' 
here  to-day  for,  I'd  like  to  know,  and  talkin'  so  glib 
about  meetin'?  Go  to  meetin' !  I'll  go  or  come  jest  as 
I  darn  please,  for  all  you.  Now  get  out  o'  this  ! ' 
Why,  she  come  at  me  with  a  broomstick.  There 
wasn't  no  need  on't ;  what  she  said  was  enough.  I 
hadn't  never  asked  her  nor  hern  to  so  much  as 
think  of  goodness  before.  Then  I  went  to  another 
place  jest  like  that, —  I  won't  call  no  more  names, —  and 
sure  enough  there  was  ten  children  in  rags,  the  hull  of 
'em,  and  the  man  half  drunk.  He  giv'  it  to  me,  too ; 
and  I  don't  wonder.  I'd  never  lifted  a  hand  to  serve 
nor  save  'em  before  in  all  these  j'ears.  I'd  said  con- 
sider'ble  about  the  heathen  in  foreign  parts,  and  give 
some  little  for  to  convert  'em,  and  I  had  looked  right 
over  the  heads  of  them  that  was  next  door.  Seemed 
as  if  I  could  hear  Him  say,  '  These  ought  ye  to  have 
done,  and  not  have  left  the  other  undone.'  I  couldn't 
face  another  soul  to-day,  brethren.  I  come  home,  and 
here  I  be.  I've  been  searched  through  and  through 
and  found  wantin'.  God  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner !  " 

He  dropped  into  his  seat,  and  bowed  his  head ;  and 
many  another  bent,  also.  It  was  plain  that  the  dea 
con's  experience  was  not  the  only  one  among  the 
brethren.  Mr.  Pay  son  rose,  and  prayed  as  he  had 
never  prayed  before ;  the  week  of  practice  had  fired 


36  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

his  heart,  too.  And  it  began  a  memorable  year  for  the 
church  in  Sugar  Hollow  ;  not  a  year  of  excitement  or 
enthusiasm,  but  one  when  they  heard  their  Lord 
saying,  as  to  Israel  of  old,  "Go  forward;"  and  they 
obeyed  his  voice.  The  Sunday  school  flourished,  the 
church  services  were  fully  attended,  every  good  thing 
was  helped  on  its  way,  and  peace  reigned  in  their 
homes  and  hearts  ;  imperfect,  perhaps,  as  new  growths 
are,  but  still  an  offshoot  of  the  peace  past  under 
standing. 

And  another  year  they  will  keep  another  week  of 
practice,  by  common  consent. 


A   BLACK  SILK.  37 


A    BLACK    SILK. 


"  FETCH  him  right  iii  here,  pa.  Poor  little  feller !  I 
hope  he'll  come  to  !  " 

The  man  who  had  just  fished  this  little  pickle  of  a 
boy  out  of  the  brook  obeyed  the  kind  voice,  and  lugged 
his  dripping  burden  into  the  small  brown  house,  laid 
him  on  the  floor,  and  hurried  away  after  the  doctor, 
while  Aunt  Nancy  Peck  stripped  off  the  wet  clothes, 
rubbed  the  cold  bod}',  and  tried  all  her  homely,  old- 
fashioned  ways  of  restoration. 

Boys  are  hard  to  kill :  before  the  doctor  got  there 
Leslie  Varick  opened  his  eyes,  and  laughed  in  Aunt 
Nancy's  face,  and  the  dear,  kindly  old  face  smiled  back 
on  the  naughty  bo}'.  Leslie  had  been  sent  to  spend  the 
summer  in  Barrett,  while  his  father  and  mother  were 
abroad,  and  being  a  "human  boy,"  as  Mr.  Chadband 
says,  he  got  into  every  variety  of  mischief  known  to 
that  species,  his  latest  exploit  being  a  headlong  tum 
ble  into  the  mill-pond,  from  which  Ozias  Peck  drew  him 
as  soon  as  he  rose  to  the  surface,  and  disposed  of  him 
as  recorded.  But  when  Master  Leslie  began  to  stir  in 
the  warm  nest  of  blankets,  he  also  began  to  howl.  If 
he  had  only  been  half  drowned,  my  story  would  have 
had  the  fate  of  Franklin's  instructive  rhyme  that 
begins,  — 

"  For  want  of  a  nail  the  shoe  was  lost." 


38  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

But  the  nail  was  not  wanting  ;  in  going  down  he  struck 
sharply  on  a  rock,  and  broke  his  leg,  so  that  Aunt 
Nancy's  blankets  and  his  tired  little  body  had  long 
acquaintance.  However,  at  last  he  got  well,  and  in 
the  late  autumn  went  home,  and  told  his  mother  how 
good  Aunt  Nancy  had  been  to  him :  to  be  sure,  his 
board  had  been  duly  paid  for  the  six  weeks  he  spent 
with  the  good  woman  ;  but  Mrs.  Varick  felt  as  mothers 
do  feel,  even  about  the  naughtiest  boys,  that  she  still 
owed  her  a  debt  of  gratitude,  and  Leslie  had  a  scrap  of 
heart  under  all  his  mischief,  —  enough  to  grow  a  good- 
sized  organ  by  and  by,  when  he  should  find  out  that 
animals  have  nerves,  and  other  bo}Ts  tastes  and  feelings 
not  unlike  his  own.  He  had  hardly  done  capering 
around  the  open  trunks  that  held  so  man}'  pretty  foreign 
things,  — so  many  for  him,  —  when  suddenly  he  threw 
himself  on  the  floor,  and,  putting  his  curly  head  on  his 
mother's  lap,  began  :  — 

"Mammy,  haven't  you  got  something  in  all  this 
truck  I  can  give  old  Aunty  Peck?  She  was  tremen 
dously  good  to  me  when  I  cracked  my  shin-bone  down 
there  in  Barrett." 

Mrs.  Varick  laughed.  u  0  Lello !  what  a  slangy 
boy !  But  no  matter ;  if  you  want  to  give  Mrs.  Peck 
something,  choose  for  yourself.  I  meant  to  send  her  a 
nice  gift  at  Christmas,  but  it  would  be  better  for  you 
to  do  it." 

"  Oh,  I've  got  it !  Send  her  those  red  things  }rou  got 
to  wear  on  your  neck  and  ears.  Oh,  jolly  !  wouldn't 
she  just  take  the  shine  out  of  Barrett  folks  on  Sun 
day  !  " 

"  My  pink  corals?  Well  done,  Lello  !  How  do  you 
think  those  exquisitely  cut  cameos  would  look  on  a 


A   SLACK  SILK.  39 

black  alpaca  gown?  Why,  child,  they  are  set  in  pearls, 
and  cut  by  the  best  artist  in  Italy  ;  the  set  cost  five 
hundred  dollars.  Try  again,  sir." 

"O  mammy,  what  do  you  s'pose  a  man  knows 
about  women's  finer}*  ?  " 

"  A  man  !  I  like  that,"  laughed  his  mother.  "  But 
try  once  more,  dear,  and  if  you  choose  wrong  this  time 
I  will  choose  for  you." 

Leslie  put  his  head  on  one  side  like  a  bird  eying  a 
beetle,  thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  whistled 
"Captain  Jinks"  like  a  cheerful  robin,  as  he  peered 
into  the  trunks.  At  last  he  dived  into  the  bottom  of 
the  largest. 

"  Here's  the  very  thing! — this  dull  old  shawl.  It 
does  look  rather  dirty,  but  she  could  wash  it,  and  it's 
sort  of  soft  and  warm." 

Mrs.  Varick  fell  back  in  her  chair,  and  lifted  up  her 
hands  and  eyes.  "  Leslie,  my  camel's-hair  shawl  that 
your  father  would  buy  me,  though  I  protested !  The 
handsomest  shawl  in  Paris,  and  the  dearest !  " 

"  It  looks  dirty,  an}-way,"  stoutly  protested  Leslie. 
"  I  don't  care  if  it  cost  fifty  thousand  dollars,  mammy, 
it  isn't  clean." 

"  You  goosey  boy,  that's  the  way  they  all  are." 

"  Well,  I  know  Aunty  Peck  wouldn't  wear  it,  any 
way,  till  'twas  washed :  she  can't  abide  dirt.  I  guess 
3*ou'll  have  to  pick  out  her  present.  I  seem  to  miss  it 
every  time." 

"  Don't  you  think,  Lello,  a  nice  black  silk  dress 
would  be  a  good  thing  ?  " 

"  Like  enough,"  muttered  Leslie,  disgusted  at  such 
a  sombre,  commonplace  thing  for  a  Christmas  present. 
A  crimson  satin  would  have  met  with  his  own  appro- 


40  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

bation ;  but  he  dared  not  suggest  it  after  his  two 
failures. 

So  Mrs.  Yarick  bought  twenty-five  yards  of  excellent 
silk,  heavy  fringe  to  trim  it,  a  set  of  expensive  buttons, 
and  all  needful  linings  and  thread,  having  never  in  her 
life  seen  Aunt  Nancy  or  her  surroundings,  but  from 
Lello's  enthusiasm  about  the  house,  the  barn,  the 
savory  and  abundant  food,  and  the  large  garden,  sup 
posing  Ozias  was  a  well-to-do  farmer,  instead  of  a  poor 
blacksmith,  whose  daily  fare  was  made  dainty  to  Leslie 
by  the  keen  air  of  Barrett  and  the  uncompromising 
appetite  of  a  boy.  Mrs.  Yarick  herself  would  have 
starved  on  the  rye  bread,  baked  beans,  Indian  pudding, 
fried  pork,  and  succotash  that  were  so  delicious  to  her 
son,  and  been  utterly  incredulous  of  possible  comfort 
in  that  small  brown  house,  with  its  stuffy  best  bedroom 
opening  out  of  the  kitchen,  just  as  the  small  parlor 
did :  for  they  lived  in  the  kitchen,  and  slept  in  the 
half-story  above  it  in  summer,  or  in  the  tiny  bedroom 
at  one  end  in  winter. 

However,  the  dress  was  bought,  and  packed,  and 
sent  at  Christmas,  with  a  scrubby  little  letter  from 
Leslie,  expressing  his  gratitude,  and  wishing  Aunty 
Peck  a  merry  Christmas  ;  and  this  was  the  end  of  it 
to  the  Yaricks.  But  it  was  only  the  beginning  of 
things  to  Aunt  Nancy. 

When  the  package  arrived  she  was  as  pleased  as  a 
woman  can  be.  "Why,  'Zias  Peck!"  she  exclaimed, 
as  the  glistening  length  of  silk  unrolled  before  her, 
and  the  rich  fringe  and  bright  buttons  inside  the  dress 
lay  open  to  her  delighted  gaze,  "  this  beats  all  natur'. 
I  never  did  !  What  upon  airth  shall  I  do  with  it  ?  It's 
heaps  too  good  for  an  old  creatur'  like  me." 


A   BLACK  SILK.  41 

"'Taint  nuther,"  sturdily  retorted  Ozias.  "I've 
allers  lotted  on  buyin'  of  ye  a  silk  gownd  some  day, 
Nancy,  but  somehow  things  have  went  ag'inst  me  mor 
tally.  There  aint  no  woman  in  Barrett  deserves  it  no 
more'n  you  do ;  'nd  I'm  thankful  to  Providence  for 
doin'  of  it,  so  be's  I  couldn't  nryself." 

Aunt  Nancy's  brown  eyes  shone  with  tears.  It  was 
not  often  Ozias  allowed  himself  the  luxury  of  praising 
his  wife ;  few  men  do ;  but  it  is  a  precious  cordial  to 
the  female  mind,  if  they  only  knew  it. 

"  Well,  well,  pa,  I  don't  say  but  what  I'm  glad  on't, 
though  I  hed  ruther  'twould  ha'  ben  a  suit  of  Sabba'- 
day  clothes  for  you.  My  alpacky  is  good  'nough." 

"  Sho,  mother,  you  go  'long  and  £ew  your  gownd, 
an'  put  it  on,  'nd  go  to  meetin'  in't.  Sabba'-day 
clothes  do  wimmin-folks  a  heap  more  good  'n  men- 
folks." 

Aunt  Nancy  laughed  ;  the  amiable  satire  amused  her. 
So  she  folded  up  her  dress,  and  the  next  week  took  it 
to  Miss  Salter  to  cut  and  baste,  intending  to  sew  it 
herself.  But  as  the  lengths  of  silk  lay  across  Miss 
Salter's  table,  in  sailed  Mrs.  Gross,  whose  husband 
kept  the  Barrett  "  store." 

"  Whose  dress  is  that?  "  she  asked,  curtly. 

"Why,  it's  Aunt  Nancy  Peck's ;  aint  it  a  most  an 
elegant  silk?"  purred  Miss  Salter. 

"  I  want  to  know  !  What's  happened  to  them  Pecks  ? 
I  thought  he  was  shif'less  as  a  Canady  thistle.  How 
come  she  by  that  dress?  It's  cur'us  how  sech  folks  is 
always  owin'  and  always  havin'." 

"Why,  she  says  'twas  sent  to  her  in  a  present  by 
that  youngster  't  'Zias  fished  out  o'  the  pond  last 
summer." 


42  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

"  My  sakes !  I  don't  believe  it.  Boys  aint  so 
skerce  that  folks  pay  that  way  for  haulin'  of  'em  out 
o'  water.  I  don't  believe  but  what  she's  laid  by  quite 
a  spell  to  buy  it  herself." 

Mrs.  Gross  flounced  out  of  the  room,  and  took  a 
straight  course  for  the  store. 

"  Well,  Hiram  Gross,"  she  began,  sitting  down  on  a 
big  cheese-box  in  the  back  room,  where  she  found  her 
husband,  —  a  meek,  slow  man,  with  a  rather  delayed 
utterance,  —  "  here  I  have  been  a-slavin'  and  a-savin' 
for  3'ou  this  seventeen  year,  and  I  haven't  never  had 
but  one  silk  gownd  to  my  back,  'nd  here's  'Zias  Peck's 
wife  has  got  a  satin-finished  black  silk  a-cuttin'  to 
Sabry  Salter's,  fit  for  the  Judge's  wife,  trimmin's  to 
match.  Don't  he  owe  ye  a  bill  right  along?" 

"  Well,"  said  the  easy  man,  looking  gently  over  his 
spectacles,  "  I  don't  know  but  what  he  d — oos,  a  leetle. 
'Z — ias  means  well  —  he  means  real  well ;  b — ut  he 
aint  forehanded,  'nd  I  don'  know  's  I  feel  to  blame 
him.  He  was  b — orn  tired,  I  expect  —  he  !  he  !  he  !  " 

"  Now  I  want  to  see  them  books  o'  }rourn,  Hi  Gross. 
Ef  he  owes  ye  thirty  dollars,  jest  you  set  a  lawyer  onto 
him,  an'  git  the  money,  an'  buy  me  a  silk  gownd  ;  she'd 
oughter  hev  paid  ye  the  money  b'fore  she  buyed  sech 
finery  as  that,  and  me  goin'  everywhere  in  nothing  but 
a  cashmere." 

"  No,  Sary,  'twouldn't  be  no  use  for  ye  to  see  them 
books  n — ow  ;  they  aint  footed  up."  Here  the  easy 
man  closed  his  lips  with  a  set  firmness  that  Mrs.  Gross 
knew  well ;  it  was  his  one  mode  of  resistance  to  her 
marital  authority.  He  could  not  scold  or  domineer, 
but  he  could  shut  his  mouth ;  and  he,  too,  thought 
silence  was  golden. 


A   SLACK  SILK.  43 

But  she  would  not  be  baffled.  The  clerks  of  the 
store  boarded  with  Mr.  Gross,  and  the  youngest,  a  tall, 
growing  boy,  always  hungry,  she  had  made  her 
obedient  servant  by  the  simple  method  of  feeding  him 
well  when  he  made  himself  useful  to  her,  and  withhold 
ing  rations  whenever  he  recalcitrated ;  she  worked 
upon  this  principle  now,  and  discovered  through  him 
that  Ozias  was  in  debt  thirty-six  dollars  to  her  hus 
band. 

So,  taking  the  matter  into  her  own  hands,  she  stepped 
into  the  little  shanty  one  bitter  cold  morning,  when 
Ozias  sat  crouched  over  the  fire  waiting  for  a  job,  and 
told  the  poor  man,  in  very  short  and  sharp  terms,  that 
Mr.  Gross  wanted  him  to  pay  up  his  bill ;  he  couldn't 
afford  to  be  out  of  the  money  so  long. 

Ozias  was  a  simple  creature,  and  the  proprieties  of 
business  were  quite  unknown  to  him  ;  he  did  not  know 
why  Mrs.  Gross  had  not  as  good  a  right  to  dun  him  as 
her  husband,  and  his  face  fell. 

"  I'm  dre'dful  sorry,  Mrs.  Gross,"  he  said,  plain 
tively.  "  I  don't  see  no  wa}r  to  raise  the  money 
dyrect.  I  thought  'twas  kind  of  'greed  on  to  take  a 
share  on't  out  in  shoein'  the  horse,  'nd  there's  a  little 
on  my  side  to  the  good.  I  do  mean  to  pay  Mister 
Gross  as  quick  as  ever  I  get  the  means  ;  but  times  is 
hard  and  business  is  dreadful  slack.  And  " — 

"  Folks  that  can  buy  their  wives  black- silk  gowns 
had  ought  to  pay  their  store-bills,"  snapped  the 
woman,  fixing  her  cold  gray  eyes  on  him. 

Ozias  was  struck  dumb.  The  silk  dress,  that  he  took 
such  pride  in,  was,  so  to  speak,  crumpled  up  and 
thrown  in  his  face  ;  and  Mrs.  Gross  left  him  staring  at 
her,  his  mouth  open,  and  his  jaw  dropped. 


44  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

"  O  Lordy !  "  he  ejaculated  as  she  disappeared, 
dropping  down  on  the  nail-keg  that  was  his  wonted 
seat.  "  What  upon  airth  !  She  doos  beat  all !  Well, 
I  won't  say  nothin'  to  mother.  They  can't  'tach  her 
gownd  noway,  if  they  do  the  furnitoor,  and  I'm  glad 
on't." 

Just  here  a  pair  of  horses  appeared  at  the  door,  and 
with  a  heavy  sigh  Ozias  went  to  his  work. 

While  this  happened  Aunt  Nancy  was  sitting  by  the 
window,  stitching  away  at  her  new  gown,  and  in  sailed 
Miss  Beers,  collector  for  the  church  contributions. 
Now,  Aunt  Nancy  had  always  given  of  her  poverty  to 
various  causes  presented  in  the  routine,  as  a  matter  of 
duty.  But  this  year  her  winter  bonnet  was  a  hopeless 
case  ;  she  could  not  press  it  or  retrim  it  any  longer ; 
the  felt  was  broken  and  rusty,  the  ribbon  frayed,  the 
binding  all  worn  out,  and  to  be  decently  comparable 
with  her  silk  dress  a  new  one  had  to  be  a  little  finer  ;  so 
all  her  store  of  money,  painfully  gathered  from  the  sale 
of  berries,  home-knit  socks,  eggs,  and  chickens,  had 
been  exhausted  by  the  new  felt  bonnet  with  satin  rib 
bons,  and  the  warm  gloves,  that  were  a  real  necessity. 

"I'm  awful  sorry,"  she  said,  in  a  half- frightened 
way,  as  Miss  Sernantha  Beers  showed  her  forbidding 
countenance,  and  took  the  proffered  chair.  "  I  did 
expect  to  have  somethin'  as  usual  to  contriboot,  but  I 
haint.  Things  is  so  this  year  that  I  can't  do  jest  what 
I  hev  done." 

"  H'm  !  "  sniffed  Miss  Beers,  setting  her  pale  lips 
more  closely,  and  staring  at  the  silk  dress.  "Them 
that  cares  for  the  poor,  perishiu'  frame  to  sech  an  extent 
as  that  they  can't  give  no  help  to  the  lost  souls  a-cryin' 
out  for  sucker  in  the  ends  of  the  airth  will  find  them- 


A    BLACK  SILK.  45 

selves  a-cryin'  in  vain  mabbe  when  these  mortal  gods  " 
(she  meant  gauds)  "  and  vanities  is  clean  vanished 
away  into  emptiness  and "  — 

"  I'm  real  sorry,"  interrupted  Aunt  Nancy,  a  little 
scared  by  this  commination,  "  but  so  it  is  ;  and  ef  I 
haint  got  it  I  can't  give  it." 

"  I  should  think  if  you  had  sold  your  goods  and  gi'n 
the  money  to  them  that  needs  salvation  a  sight  more'n 
you  need  a  silk  gownd,  'twould  be  a  lot  better  for  your 
immortal  soul,"  Miss  Semantha  answered,  pursing  up 
her  mouth  and  rolling  up  her  eyes. 

"  Why,  mercj'  sakes !  Miss  S'manthy,  the  dress 
was  gi'n  to  me.  I  couldn't  give  't  away,  nor  sell  it,  ye 
know.  That  boy  o'  Varick's  that  come  so  near  gittiu' 
drownded  was  here  quite  a  spell  with  a  broke  leg,  and 
I  missed  him  up,  for  his  folks  was  to  Eurup  ;  so  when 
it  come  Christmas-time,  why,  he  went  and  sent  me  this 
in  a  present,  trimmin's  and  all.  I  was  real  beat  when 
I  got  it.  Course  ye  know  I  couldn't  never  hev  afforded 
no  sech  gownd  ;  but  I  don't  deny  but  what  I  feel  con- 
sider'ble  set  up." 

"  Yes,  I  dessay  ye  do,"  sighed  Miss  Beers,  whose 
green  eyes  looked  longingly  at  the  heavy  silk.  "  Seems 
as  though  'twould  ha'  ben  more  accordin'  to  your 
necessities,  though,  ef  they'd  hev  paid  his  board  right 
out  and  out." 

"Why,  land,  they  did,  —  five  dollars  a  week.  The 
gownd  Leslie  sent  me  for  a  present.  He's  kind  of 
free-hearted,  and  he  and  me  got  to  thinkiu'  a  sight  of 
each  other  whilst  he  laid  here  on  the  comp'n}'  bed." 

"  Well,  I  must  say  it's  siug'lar.  I  should  ha' 
thought  they'd  ha'  thought  five  dollars  a  week  was 
enough.  Sence  you  say  so,  of  course  it's  so,  but 


46  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

seems  as  though  'twas  scatter-in'  their  means  to  do  sech 
things." 

Mrs.  Peck  felt  this  remark  to  be  unanswerable,  and 
Miss  Semantha  got  up  to  go  away,  convinced  in  her 
own  mind  that  the  money  for  Leslie's  board  had  been 
laid  out  on  the  dress,  and  Aunt  Nancy's  conscience 
twisted  to  make  it  appear  the  boy's  present.  She  made 
much  capital  of  the  whole  affair  at  the  next  sewing 
society  ;  and,  by  some  of  the  inscrutable  means  that 
spread  gossip  like  spores  of  disease,  her  tale  got  to  the 
ears  of  Stephen  Spencer,  the  richest  man  in  Barrett, 
and  the  holder  of  a  mortgage  on  Ozias  Peck's  little 
homestead. 

Five  years  ago  Chester  Peck,  Ozias's  only  child,  had 
been  seized  with  a  wild  desire  to  go  to  California. 
Barrett  was  a  dull  place,  its  only  life  the  great  cotton- 
mill  that  Mr.  Spencer  owned,  and  Chester  had  no  lik 
ing  for  mill  work,  nor  could  he  buy  a  farm,  or  even 
rent  one.  He  was  a  bright,  energetic  young  fellow, 
and  Ozias  had  sense  enough,  slow  as  he  was,  to  see 
that  his  son  ought  to  go  somewhere  else  to  find  success, 
or  even  occupation  ;  so  he  mortgaged  his  house  for 
three  hundred  dollars,  and  sent  his  boy  off  on  his  trav 
els.  He  had  gone  at  once  to  San  Francisco,  and  after 
a  while  got  a  place  as  clerk  in  a  hotel ;  but  after  two 
years'  absence  his  letters  suddenly  ceased,  and  his 
father  and  mother  had  gradually  come  to  believe  him 
dead.  But  the  mortgage  did  not  die,  and  year  after 
year  it  taxed  Ozias  to  the  utmost  to  pay  its  interest ; 
but  for  this  the  bill  at  the  store  never  would  have  run 
on  so  long,  and  this  year  the  mortgage  would  have  been 
foreclosed  but  for  the  lucky  accident  that  laid  up  Leslie 
Varick  in  their  house  six  weeks,  and  brought  them  in 


A  BLACK  SILK.  47 

thirty  dollars.  Now,  Stephen  Spencer  was  a  man  who 
had  made  money  by  the  most  grinding  economy  and  all 
kinds  of  petty  shifts  and  stratagems ;  he  held  as  an 
article  of  faith  that  no  poor  man  ought  to  spend  any 
money  at  all  except  for  the  bare  necessities  of  life : 
pork,  and  potatoes,  and  cabbage  were  nourishing  food, 
and  calico  and  osnaburg  cheap ;  finery  was  a  sin,  and 
palatable  food  a  crime,  in  his  eyes  ;  money  was  the  sole 
good  of  life.  Yet  he  took  none  of  the  ordinary  pleasure 
people  take  in  the  results  of  wealth ;  his  own  dress  was 
shabby,  his  method  of  life  squalid,  his  workmen  were 
pinched  of  their  wages  and  crowded  in  their  work. 
"Steve"  Spencer  was  a  by-word  in  all  the  country 
round  for  meanness  and  greed. 

Such  a  man  was  not  likely  to  lose  any  money  for 
want  of  watching  his  investments.  When  he  heard 
that  Ozias  Peck's  wife  had  a  new  black  silk  dress,  and 
when  he  saw  it  on  a  bright  March  Sunday,  shining  and 
rustling  up  the  meeting-house  aisle  on  her  well-rounded 
person,  —  for  she  laid  aside  her  shabby  shawl  in  the 
porch,  and  gave  it  to  Ozias  to  carry  in  for  her,  —  he 
jumped  at  once  to  the  conclusion  that  this  unlucky 
couple  had  been  beset  by  that  sudden  craze  which 
sometimes  attacks  poor  people,  and  impels  them  to 
launch  out  into  some  expenditure,  extravagant  and 
quite  unwarranted,  but  indulged  in  from  an  impulse  of 
despair,  such  as  makes  a  slave  strike  his  master,  or  a 
prisoner  kill  his  jailer ;  for  what  slavery  or  what  im 
prisonment  is  worse  than  the  heavy  shackles  of  poverty, 
the  despair  of  debt,  the  grind  of  a  life  that  is  endless 
labor,  the  pleasureless  existence,  "  the  haunting,  inde 
finable  dread,  of  a  moneyless  man?" 

A   fear   of  this   sort   smote   the   sense  of   Stephen 


48  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

Spencer  as  he  looked  at  Aunt  Nancy  shining  up  the 
aisle  to  her  seat  by  the  pulpit ;  for  Ozias  was  deaf,  and 
had  to  be  near  the  minister  to  enjoy  his  sermon.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  about  to  lose  the  interest 
on  his  mortgage  ;  but  the  word  carried  its  own  remedy. 
He  could  —  he  would  —  foreclose  at  once  ;  such  ex 
travagance  was  no  longer  to  be  condoned  ;  his  own 
daughter,  a  meek  and  much-oppressed  girl,  never  had 
a  silk  dress  in  her  life  ;  there  she  sat  now,  in  a  cheap 
alpaca  and  an  old  straw  hat  trimmed  with  worn  velvet, 
looking  for  all  the  world  like  a  lily-of-the-valley  under 
dry  leaves,  so  pure  and  pale  was  her  delicate  counte 
nance,  so  slight  her  shape,  so  shrinking  her  girlish 
attitudes.  That  the  dress  could  have  been  a  present 
to  Aunt  Nancy  never  entered  his  head ;  in  all  his  long, 
poor  life  he  had  never  given  anybody  so  much  as  a 
common  pin,  and  to  give  away  a  silk  dress  would  have 
stamped  the  giver  in  his  eyes  as  a  dangerous  lunatic ; 
he  comforted  himself  with  reflecting  that  he  could 
threaten  Ozias  at  least,  for  he  did  not  pay  very 
punctually  the  ten  per  cent,  interest,  and  the  last  in 
stalment  was  due  this  two  weeks :  he  would  foreclose 
as  soon  as  the  law  allowed,  surely.  And  secure  in  that 
resolve  he  went  to  sleep  in  the  corner  of  his  slip,  and 
made  a  day  of  rest  out  of  the  Sunday  that  was  never 
anything  else  but  rest  to  him.  Ozias  sat  with  his  head 
sunk  on  his  breast :  a  dreadful  shadow  of  debt  hung 
over  him ;  the  sanctuary  was  not  a  place  of  refuge 
from  such  troubles ;  he  could  not  help  seeing  Mrs. 
Gross's  cold,  clear  eyes  fixed  on  Aunt  Nancy  as  she 
rustled  up  the  aisle  in  her  innocent  complacency,  and 
he  thought  her  husband  eyed  him  askance,  as  who 
should  say,  "To-day  thee,  to-morrow  me;"  and  in 


A  'SLACK  SILK.  49 

his  mental  distress  he  heaved  sighs  so  deep,  though 
unconscious,  that  dear  Aunt  Nancy,  devoutly  drinking 
in  Parson  Fry's  sermon,  could  not  but  hope  her  hus 
band  was  under  conviction,  and  felt  more  than  ever 
ashamed  that  her  contributions  to  the  missionary-box 
had  fallen  short.  If  only  Ozias  could  be  converted, 
she  thought,  she  would  deny  herself  everything  in 
future  to  make  proper  thank-offerings  ;  and  as  she  sat 
musing  on  this  great  mercy  the  silk  gown  went  out  of 
her  simple,  pious  mind,  and  did  her  as  little  good  as 
the  old  alpaca  that  had  been  her  ordinary  Sunday  garb 
so  long. 

But  every  woman  belonging  to  the  sewing-circle  had 
an  eye  to  that  transgression  in  silk,  and  many  a  head 
was  shaken  over  Aunty  Peck's  fall  from  grace  in  the 
line  of  apparel,  while  Miss  Beers  passed  her  by  on  the 
other  side,  as  the  congregation  at  last  emerged  from 
the  building,  with  a  look  of  scornful  pity  that  made 
Aunt  Nancy  feel  like  a  sinner  of  the  deepest  dye, 
though  her  own  conscience  withheld  its  blame  ;  but  we 
are  so  apt  to  think  more  of  other  people's  opinion  of 
us  than  our  own. 

Monday  was  a  black  day  to  Ozias.  He  had  hardly 
got  to  work  before  Stephen  Spencer  appeared  at  the 
shop  door  and  demanded  his  due. 

"  You  had  ought  to  have  been  on  time,  'Zias  Peck. 
Every  six  months  punctooal  is  the  way.  Th'  int'rest 
money  was  due  Friday  last,  and  I  haint  seen  hide  nor 
hair  on't." 

"O  Lordy  !  "  squeaked  Ozias,  with  the  pitiful  tone 
of  a  mouse  in  a  trap.  "  Don't  ye,  now  don't  ye, 
Square  Spencer.  Times  is  so  everlastin'  bad,  and 
business  hez  fell  off.  I'd  ha'  did  it  ef  I'd  ha'  had  it  to 


50  THE  SPHIXX'S   CHILDREN. 

hev  done ;  but  it  does  seem  as  though  folks  let  their 
bosses  go  on  the  huff  ruther'n  hev  'em  shod,  and  they'll 
rig  a  rail  betwixt  the  exes  afore  they'll  come  here  an' 
get  me  to  tinker  of  'em  up.  It's  so,  now  I  tell  ye, 
Square." 

"  That's  talk,"  said  the  Squire,  fixing  his  hard,  bold 
eyes  on  Ozias  with  the  look  of  a  born  tyrant.  "•  Biz- 
ness  is  bizness  ;  folks  thet  borrer  must  pay.  Ef  you 
can  buy  your  wife  a  silk  gownd  to  go  to  meetin'  in, 
you  can  pay  me  fifteen  dollars,  sure  as  shootin',  and 
3rou've  got  to." 

"  Darn  that  gownd  !  "  burst  from  Ozias's  despairing 
lips.  "  No,  don't  nuther.  The  gownd's  hern,  and 
she  sets  by  it  like  everything,  I  tell  ye.  'Twas  a 
present.  I  didn't  buy  it  no  more'n  you  did.  I  wisht  I 
could,  but  I  couldn't." 

"  Don't  tell  me  no  sech  yarn  as  that,  'Zias  Peck. 
Folks  don't  send  silk  gownds  to  old  women  round  the 
country,  no  more'n  they  rain  out  o'  the  sky.  I  tell  ye 
ag'in  I've  got  to  hev  that  int'rest  money  before  Sat'day 
night,  or  I'll  foreclose  that  moggidge  as  sure  as  I  stan' 
here,  —  you  jest  depend  on't ;  "  and  with  these  words 
the  usurer  walked  off,  confident  and  self-satisfied,  and 
poor  Ozias  sank  on  to  his  nail-keg,  and  dropped  his 
face  in  his  hands. 

What  could  he  do  ?  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
sell  the  heifer,  a  creature  of  their  own  raising,  whose 
mother  was  already  fatting  for  the  butcher.  This  must 
be  done,  and  then  he  could  pay  Squire  Spencer  and 
part  of  the  store-bill ;  but  it  was  like  selling  a  child. 
The  pretty  heifer  was  Aunt  Nancy's  pet,  and  whenever 
Ozias  came  to  drive  her  home  from  pasture  she  came 
up  to  him  and  pushed  her  fine  muzzle  into  his  hand, 


A   BLACK  SILK.  51 

hoping  for  an  apple,  a  crust  of  bread,  a  lump  of  salt, 
or  a  crisp  turnip,  and  if  she  failed  to  find  such  a  tidbit, 
turned  her  soft  purple  eyes  on  him  with  a  bland  re 
proach  that  went  to  his  heart. 

And  to  sell  Betty  meant  to  be  stinted  in  milk,  pinched 
in  butter,  deprived  of  snowy  Dutch  cheese  in  hot  sum 
mer  days,  and  ripe  home-made  cheeses  the  year  round  ; 
it  meant  to  take  away  two-thirds  of  what  simple  luxu 
ries  they  had ;  but  it  was  better,  after  all,  than  to  lose 
the  house.  The  poor  man  had  not  the  courage  to  tell 
his  wife  at  once.  He  went  over  to  the  tavern  where 
Selah  Hills  lived,  to  see  what  he  could  get  for  his 
heifer ;  and  finding  that  worthy  ready  to  pay  him 
thirty  dollars  in  cash,  agreed  to  receive  the  price,  and 
deliver  the  animal  the  next  week.  He  put  off  the  evil 
day  of  telling  Aunt  Nancy  as  long  as  he  could,  though 
he  had  to  tell  Squire  Spencer  that  by  the  next  Thursday 
he  would  pay  up  his  debt,  —  information  not  altogether 
pleasant  to  Stephen,  who  wanted  to  end  the  matter, 
and  secure  himself  from  final  loss  as  soon  as  possible. 
Of  his  bill  at  the  store  he  heard  nothing  more.  Mrs. 
Gross  went  out  of  town  suddenly  to  see  her  sick 
mother,  and  nothing  was  farther  from  her  husband's 
thought  than  to  harass  an  honest,  hard-working  man 
like  Ozias  Peck  ;  but,  as  the  days  went  on,  Ozias  be 
thought  himself  that  the  bill  might  come  in  any  moment, 
and  his  wife  be  disturbed  by  it;  so  he  wrote  a  note 
to  Mr.  Gross,  assuring  him  that  part  of  it  would  be 
paid  the  next  week,  on  Thursday  ;  but  as  the  good 
man  had  gone  to  fetch  his  wife  home  the  labored  epis 
tle,  so  pathetic  in  its  thumbed,  misspelled  condition 
and  plaintive  humility,  had  to  wait  for  his  return. 

In  the  meanwhile  Ozias  went  about  his  work  under 


52  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

a  heavy  cloud ;  he  was  silent  at  meals,  groaned  and 
sighed  in  his  sleep,  seemed  to  take  no  interest  in  the 
weekly  paper,  and  mightily  strengthened  his  wife's 
hope  that  he  was  struggling  with  a  sense  of  his  sinful 
condition,  and  on  the  high-road  to  a  new  life  of  faith 
and  duty.  She  watched  him  in  respectful  silence, 
hoping  for  some  word  of  confidence  or  emotion,  till 
human  nature  could  endure  it  no  longer,  and  she  burst 
out  one  night  as  he  sat  by  the  fire,  with  his  head  in  his 
hands : — 

"  Say,  'Zias,  be  ye  under  conviction?  " 

"Lordy!"  exclaimed  the  astonished  man,  looking 
up  at  her.  "  Under  conviction  !  If  I  be,  I  guess  it's 
conviction  of  other  folks's  sins.  I'm  pestered  with 
them  a  heap  more'n  I  be  with  my  own,  now  I  tell  ye." 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Aunt  Nancy,  piteously,  wiping 
her  spectacles  on  her  checked  apron  ;  "  I  was  in  hopes 
you'd  seed  your  errors,  and  ben  a-repentin'  of  'em.  Ye 
know,  'Zias,  you've  set  under  the  droppin's  of  the 
sanctooary  a  consider'ble  long  time,  and  I'm  dreadful 
afeard  you're  getting  hardened." 

"  I  wish  to  gracious  I  was  ;  I  wish  I  was  a  stun  wall ; 
but  I  aint!"  exclaimed  the  poor  man,  getting  up 
hastily  and  going  out  of  the  door.  He  could  not  bear 
another  word,  for,  though  he  had  put  the  greatest 
restraint  on  himself  to  keep  the  impending  trouble 
from  his  wife,  it  irritated  him  extremely  not  to  have 
her  sympathize  with  what  she  did  not  know  anything 
about.  Such  is  man  ! 

Aunt  Nancy  sighed ;  she,  too,  had  her  troubles. 
Parson  Fry  had  been  to  see  her  the  day  before,  and 
though  he  did  not  say  anything  definitely  about  that 
root  of  evil,  the  silk  gown,  he  delivered  such  a  homily 


A  SLACK  SILK.  53 

on  the  virtues  of  self-denial,  economy,  cheerful  giving, 
and  humility,  together  with  a  discourse  on  the  duties 
we  owe  to  the  heathen  in  particular,  that  the  poor 
woman  knew  that  he  had  heard  all  about  her  short 
comings,  and  observed  the  sable  splendor  of  her  attire 
in  meeting.  What  she  did  not  suspect,  however,  was 
that  Mrs.  Fry,  a  little,  meek,  excellent  woman,  being 
exasperated  by  the  minister's  insistence  that  she  should 
accompany  him  to  the  next  meeting  of  the  Association 
in  Hartford,  had,  after  putting  forth  sundry  small 
reasons,  to  have  them  demolished  each  in  turn  by  her 
husband's  logic,  turned  upon  him  as  the  worm  will 
turn,  and  snapped  :  — 

"  I  haven't  got  a  decent  dress  to  wear,  Mr.  Fn*.  If 
I  was  'Zias  Peck's  wife,  I  suppose  I  should  have  a  good 
black  silk ;  he  don't  have  to  buy  every  book  that's 
printed ;  "  and  so,  having  freed  her  mind,  Mrs.  Fry 
burst  into  tears,  and  went  out,  slamming  the  door 
behind  her. 

Semantha  Beers  had  already  urged  the  parson  to 
admonish  Aunt  Nancy  for  not  doing  her  duty ;  but, 
being  a  man  much  absorbed  in  study,  he  had  forgotten 
all  about  the  matter  till  his  wife's  sudden  and  surprising 
outburst  recalled  it.  He  saw  his  duty  in  a  much 
stronger  light  then,  and  performed  it  with  singular 
unction ;  and  Mrs.  Peck,  awed  by  his  dignity  of 
person  and  position,  received  his  exhortation  without 
a  word,  and  even  went  down  on  her  knees,  and  was 
prayed  at  full  fifteen  minutes  without  any  other  re 
monstrance  than  a  few  slow  tears.  She  had  kept  her 
troubles  to  herself  as  silently  as  her  husband  kept  his 
up  to  this  hour,  and  with  the  same  tender  motive. 
"  Bear  ye  one  another's  burdens."  Perhaps  this  com- 


54  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

mand  is  as  stringent  as  that  to  contribute  to  missions ; 
I  cannot  at  this  moment  place  the  latter  to  compare 
them. 

At  last  it  was  Tuesday,  and  'Zias  went  early  to  the 
barn  to  drive  his  heifer  to  pasture  for  the  last  time  ; 
to-day  he  must  tell  his  wife,  and  his  heart  ached  as  he 
thought  of  it.  But  as  he  drew  near  the  barn  an  omi 
nous  cough  smote  on  his  ear ;  he  hurried  in,  and  there 
stood  Betty,  her  hair  rough  and  staring,  her  eyes  dull 
but  wild,  her  breath  like  the  labored  puff  of  rusted  bel 
lows,  her  mouth  dripping,  and  her  legs  trembling ;  he 
could  not  but  see  that  the  dreaded  "cattle-ail"  had 
attacked  her,  and  he  remembered  now  how  slowly  she 
had  dragged  herself  from  the  lot  the  night  before, 
though  he  had  laid  it  then  to  the  sultry  heat  of  the 
April  weather,  coming,  as  now  and  then  a  day  of  April 
will  come,  with  all  the  blaze  of  July,  when  the  drifts 
are  scarce  gone  from  the  hills. 

Nothing  need  be  said  now  about  selling  the  poor 
creature  ;  remedies  must  be  found  and  applied ;  and 
all  da}-  both  Ozias  and  Nancy  worked  over  the  suffer 
ing  animal,  sat  up  with  her  all  night,  and  were  found 
beside  her  in  the  morning,  when  Selah  came  over  with 
his  money, —  Aunt  Nancy,  with  the  deer-like  head  in 
her  lap,  crying  like  a  child,  as  the  beautiful  purple 
eyes,  fast  glazing  in  death,  rolled  up  at  her  implor 
ingly,  and  Ozias,  leaning  against  the  manger,  sniffing 
fiercely. 

"Well,  I  declare!"  exclaimed  Selah,  sticking  his 
old  white  hat  in  at  the  door;  "good  as  dead,  aint 
she?  What'll  ye  take  for  hide  an'  horns,  'Zias?" 

Aunt  Nancy  looked  up,  enraged  ;  but  a  hand  was 
laid  on  Seluh's  shoulder,  and  a  kindly  countenance 


A   SLACK  SILK.  55 

peeped  over  it,  while  a  slow  voice  said,  "  Well !  well ! 
poor  c — ritter  !  Got  the  p — pleur}' — newmoaney,  haint 
she?  Why,  'Zias,  I  am  r — eal  sorry." 

"  So  be  I,"  said  Ozias,  firmly,  setting  his  battered 
hat  straight  ou  his  head,  winking  both  eyes  hard,  and 
uttering  a  loud  "  H-m ! "  to  clear  his  throat;  for  he 
saw  Stephen  Spencer  behind  the  other  men,  peering  in 
with  bold,  hard  eyes,  as  if  he,  too,  had  scented  the  prey 
afar  off,  and  pounced  down  lest  it  should  escape  him, 
though  'Zias  had  specially  appointed  to-morrow  for  his 
payment.  "  But  sorry  won't  help  none :  the  caow's 
a-dyin'.  I'd  calc'lated  to  sell  her  to  Sely  here,  and  pay 
up  that  int'rest  on  the  moggidge,  and  a  piece  o'  that 
bill  o'  yourn,  Gross ;  but  'twaut  so  to  be.  I  haint 
got  the  money,  and  I  can't  git  it,  and  you  can't  hev  it ; 
that's  the  hull  on't." 

"  But,  'Z — ias,"  put  in  the  shopkeeper's  kindly, 
stumbling  voice,  "  I've  been  to  P — lymouth,  'nd  I 
haint  but  jest  g — ot  your  letter  you  writ.  Why,  I 
hadn't  n — o  idee  of  pressin'  of  ye  to  settle.  Th'  aint 
a  mite  o'  hurry.  I  d — on'  know  what  p — ossessed  ye, 
'Zias.  I  haint  never  dunned  ye  for't,  now,  hev  I?" 

"  Your  wife  come  an'  said  you'd  got  to  hev  it  right 
off,  and  she  knowed  jest  how  'twas,  and  I  expected 
you'd  sent  her,  and  I  meant  to  ha'  paid  ye  some  on't 
ef"  — 

'Zias's  voice  stopped  here  ;  a  stifled  sob  choked  him  ; 
he  could  only  hold  out  his  rough,  trembling  hand 
toward  the  dying  cow  with  a  gesture  of  rude  dignity 
and  eloquence. 

"  Well,"  put  in  Stephen  Spencer,  "I  come  to  dun 
ye,  and  I'm  stayin'  to  dun  ye.  Either  I'll  foreclose 
that  'ere  moggidge,  or  I'll  put  a  'tachment  on  to  your 


56  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

goods  'nd  chattels.  I  guess  that  'ere  silk  gownd  '11 
sell  for  my  claim  ef  it  won't  for  Gross's." 

Aunt  Nancy  threw  her  apron  over  her  head  in  sheer 
despair  ;  the  heifer  gave  a  low  groan,  shivered  all  over, 
and  was  still,  but  Nancy  did  not  see  nor  Ozias  hear. 
Trouble  maddened  him ;  he  held  out  his  clenched  fist 
at  the  usurer. 

"  Do  it  if  ye  dare  !  That  there  gownd  is  my  wife's 
own.  She  came  by  it  in  a  way  you  won't  never  come 
by  a  half  cent, — by  bein'  kind  an'  good  to  a  feller- 
creatur,  in  trouble.  I'll  chuck  ye  inter  the  mill-pond, 
and  never  look  for  ye  no  more,  ef  you  touch  a  button 
on't,  or  so  much  as  take  it  off'n  the  peg.  Four-close 
your  old  moggidge,  five-close  it  ef  you  want  to  ;  we  can 
go  to  the  taown-house  to-morrer  without  howlin',  an  I 
shan't  care  a  darn,  ef  Nancy's  along  ;  but  you  shan't  lay 
a  finger  on  her  nor  hern." 

"  No  more  he  shall,  father,"  said  a  strong  young 
voice  behind  the  group  of  men. 

Aunt  Nancy  dropped  the  heifer's  head,  and  sprang 
up  with  a  loud  cry,  to  be  hugged  by  her  boy,  come 
home  from  California  in  the  nick  of  time. 

It  all  sounds  very  like  a  novel ;  but,  after  all,  where 
do  people  who  write  novels  get  their  situations  but  out 
of  real  life?  Sam  had  been  prospecting  in  the  interior 
of  California  since  he  left  San  Francisco,  where  the 
climate  did  not  agree  with  him,  and  had  met  with  won 
derful  success,  not  in  mining,  but  by  hard,  steady  work 
on  a  ranch.  Now  he  had  a  stock-farm  of  his  own,  and 
was  raising  fruit  besides.  He  had  made  some  money, 
and  had  a  fair  prospect  of  future  wealth  ;  but  getting  no 
answer  to  his  letters  home,  and  being  desirous  to  pay 
his  debt  to  his  father,  having  also  a  stronger  reason  — 


A   SLACK  SILK.  57 

which  was  a  secret  between  him  and  one  other  person  — 
for  returning  to  Barrett,  he  had  come  in  the  very  nick 
of  time.  In  twenty-four  hours  the  mortgage  was  can 
celled,  the  store-bill  paid,  and  five  hundred  dollars 
lodged  in  a  Hartford  savings-bank  to  his  father's 
credit.  Aunt  Nancy  wiped  away  the  few  tears  she  had 
to  shed  over  poor  Betty,  with  a  glow  at  her  heart  she 
felt  almost  ashamed  of,  seeing  her  pet  lay  stark  and 
stiff  already  under  the  sod.  Ozias  returned  to  his 
shell,  and  Selah  Hills,  who  was  a  carpenter  as  well  as 
tavern-keeper,  the  latter  occupation  being  almost  nom 
inal,  had  already  raised  the  frame  of  a  new  barn  on 
'Zias's  lot  to  accommodate  a  beautiful  full-blood 
Alderney  cow  which  Sam  Peck  had  bought  in  Hart 
ford,  and  thought  worthy  of  a  better  lodging  than  the 
tumble-down  structure  which  had  scarce  sheltered 
Betty,  when  Barrett  was  electrified  by  the  announce 
ment  that  Nelly  Spencer,  the  sweet,  pale,  gentle  girl, 
over  whom  her  father  tyrannized  always,  was  married 
to  Sam  Peck,  and  on  her  way  to  California. 

It  was  quite  true :  Sam  and  Nelly  had  been  little 
lovers  at  school,  and  never  grown  out  of  loving.  Part  of 
her  pallor  and  meekness  was  owing  to  Sam's  missing 
letters ;  she,  too,  thought  him  dead,  for  they  had  ex 
changed  stringent  promises,  and  she  knew  that  nothing 
less  than  death  could  so  silence  him.  She  forgot  that 
the  mail  service  in  those  far-away  regions  might  be 
quite  as  effectual  to  that  end. 

She  and  Sam  both  knew  it  was  of  no  use  to  ask  her 
father's  consent,  so  she  put  on  her  old  shawl  and  worn- 
out  bonnet  one  morning  and  walked  over  to  Parson 
Fry's  study.  Ozias  was  there  in  his  Sunday  clothes, 
and  Aunt  Nancy  in  the  fateful  black  silk ;  and  when 


58  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

the  brief  ceremony  was  over,  and  the  happy  pair 
packed  into  the  stage  to  meet  a  New  York  train  at  the 
nearest  station,  Aunt  Nancy  stopped  on  her  way 
home  at  Seraantha  Beers's  house,  and  gave  her  five 
dollars  for  foreign  missions.  After  that  she  wore  her 
black  silk  gown  in  peace  till  it  wore  out. 


JERICHO    JIM.  51) 


JERICHO    JIM. 


"  SAY  now,  marm !  Lemrae  in.  I  aint  half  so 
smart's  I  look  to  be.  I  kin  do  more'n  four  things  to 
help  ye,  and  I'm  kinder  onlucky  jess  now.  Mother's 
dead,  ye  sec,  'nd  " — 

Here  the  simple  creature  blubbered  honestly,  and 
drew  his  ragged  sleeve  across  his  eyes.  Mrs.  Ellery 
relented.  "Well,  who  be  ye,  anyhow?  Where  d'ye 
come  from  ?  " 

"  '  Ho,  Jemimy !    Where  d'ye  come  from  ? 
Flat  fish  'n  flounders !  where  d'ye  come  from  ? ' 

I'm  Jericho  Jim  ;  come  from  Jericho  straight,  a  Tuesday 
mornin'.  No  place  for  Jim  there.  Dad  broke  his  neck 
last  winter ;  drunk  as  David,  'nd  slipped  up,  'nd  the 
sled  fixed  him  out  a-goin'  over  him ;  mother  she  cried 
some,  but  he  was  dead,  anyhow ;  "  and,  with  a  sort  of 
furtive  grin  on  his  thin,  sallow  face,  and  a  spark  in  the 
hitherto  vacant  gray  eye,  Jericho  Jim  sent  his  stick 
spinning  in  air  and  caught  it  again  dexterously. 

"Where  be  ye  a-goiu'  to?"  inquired  the  old  lady 
again,  resting  on  her  broom-handle,  and  looking  over 
her  spectacles  at  the  queer  creature  before  her. 

"  I'm  goin'  here,  marm.  They  said  suthin'  'bout  the 
poor-house,  down  to  Jericho  ;  so  I  quit.  Poor-houses 
aiut  clean ; "  and  he  gave  a  sidelong  glance  into  the 


60  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

kitchen,  neat  as  a  lady's  parlor,  not  passing  over  the 
clean  calico  go\vn  and  stainless  cap  of  good  Mrs. 
Ellery. 

"That's  so;  they're  dirty  holes.  "Well,  you  come  in 
and  set  down.  I'll  give  ye  some  vittles,  and  ye  can 
stay  till  husband  comes  home  ;  he'll  see  to  ye." 

So  Jericho  Jim  was  set  down  to  an  abundant  supper 
of  beans,  biscuit,  pie,  and  gingerbread,  and  plenty  of 
hot  tea,  and  proved  beyond  a  doubt  that  he  was 
hungry. 

"When  Deacon  Ellery  came  home  he  growled  a  little 
at  the  new  inmate  of  his  family,  more  because  it  was 
his  way  to  growl  than  because  he  meant  it ;  for  his 
keen  eye  for  business  discerned  in  Jim  an  inexpensive 
helper,  whom  his  increasing  years  and  rheumatism  made 
welcome  if  not  needful.  Somebody  was  once  over 
heard  by  this  worthy  man  to  ask  :  "  Wh}T  does  Deacon 
Ellery  allers  go  grumblin'  round  like  an  old  gobbler?" 
and  the  deacon  saw  fit  to  answer  for  himself,  to  the 
great  confusion  of  the  inquirer,  who  had  not  seen  him 
coming:  "Why,  ye  see.  I  have  ter ;  so's  to  everage 
things.  "Wife's  orful  smoothly  ;  comf 'table  as  a  pnnkin 
in  a  corn  lot ;  allers  a-smilin'  and  chirpiu' ;  'ud  it 
stands  to  reason  all  m'lasses  aint  good  for  this  world  ; 
's  got  to  be  some  grind,  so  I  do  the  grindin'."  With 
which  exposition  of  his  unconscious  heathenism  the 
deacon  gave  a  grunt  and  walked  away.  He  was  better 
than  his  words,  however,  for  his  heart  was  warm  and 
his  head  clear  ;  and  poor  Jericho  Jim  soon  found  that 
his  new  home  was  a  haven  of  rest  for  his  weary  body, 
and  did  his  very  best  to  reward  the  sheltering  goodness 
that  fed  and  clothed  him,  and  beamed  on  him  like  sun 
shine  in  kind  looks  and  words. 


JERICHO    JIM.  61 

"I  declare  for't,"  grumbled  Deacon  Ellery,  "it 
beats  all  to  see  that  are  feller  work ;  I  dono  whether 
he's  a  fool  or  not.  See  him  a-pitchin'  into  the  wood 
pile,  mother?  Well,  ye'd  sa}r  there  warnt  no  better 
feller  to  pile  wood  betwixt  here'n  Danbury  ;  but  yester 
day,  when  he  was  a-sawin',  all  of  a  sudden  he  stopped 
short  'nd  jumped  the  fence  'nd  lay  down  in  the  sunshine 
'nd  kicked  his  heels.  '  Jim,'  says  I,  '  what  be  ye  stop- 
pin'  for?'  'So's  to  grow,'  ses  he,  cooler"  n  a  cucumber. 
'  Grow?  '  says  I.  '  Yes,'  ses  he.  '  It's  a  reel  growin' 
day ;  the'  aint  a  heap  sech  days  ;  sun  a-shinin',  birds  a- 
singin',  wind  a-blowin'  real  soft :  mostly  we're  friz  to 
death  in  this  world  ;  kinder  stunted,  deacon  ;  I  want 
to  grow  whilst  I  can  ;  there's  more'n  forty  days  in  the 
wilderness  to  work,  ye  know.'  Well,  if  I  didn't  let 
him  be  !  'Taint  no  use  a-talkin'  to  him  when  he  gets 
a  curus  notion  like  that  holt  on  him." 

"  There's  somethin'  to  most  o'  his  notions,  that's  a 
fact,"  replied  the  old  lady.  "  I  kinder  wonder  whether 
or  no  he  aint  got  the  right  on't,  Mr.  Ellery.  Mebbe  ef 
we'd  took  more  sunshine  into  us  along  back,  you  an' 
me  wouldn't  ha'  been  so  dreadful  rheumaticky." 

"He's  a  queer  genius,  anyhow, "muttered  the  deacon, 
walking  off ;  but  it  was  to  be  observed  after  this  that 
the  old  man  sat  in  the  south  door-way  more  than  he 
ever  had  done  ;  and  that  his  wife  let  in  all  the  sunshine 
into  her  bedroom  and  kitchen  that  the  small,  green- 
paned  windows  allowed.  If  they  were  too  old  to  be 
cured  of  rheumatism,  at  least  the  rooms  grew  cheery 
and  the  air  sweet,  and  spectacles  did  them  more  good 
than  usual. 

They  would  neither  have  read  or  remembered  a 
hygienic  treatise  on  the  benefits  of  sun  and  air,  but 


62  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

they  had  sense  enough  to  accept  the  homely  wisdom  of 
Jericho  Jim,  and  brains  enough  not  to  let  carpets  stand 
between  them  and  comfort. 

Before  many  months  Jim  became  a  sort  of  neighbor 
hood  courier ;  he  peddled  milk  for  the  deacon,  and  dis 
pensed  with  his  quarts  and  pints  all  the  news  of  the  vil 
lage.  Many  a  good  woman  waited  eagerly  for  his  com 
ing,  and  ran  out  with  her  apron  over  her  head,  not 
merely  for  the  pitcher  of  fresh,  sweet,  rich  fluid,  but  to 
hear  about  "  Mis'"  Allen's  sick  baby,  or  Jones's  grand 
mother  who  broke  her  leg  last  week,  or  Sary  Penny's 
company  from  York  ;  and  it  was  strange  enough  to  see 
how  quaintly  and  deftly  Jim  fitted  his  story  to  the 
hearer.  With  the  curious  instinct  that  sometimes 
dwells  in  the  souls  of  those  we  conceitedly  call  half 
witted,  he  seemed  to  comprehend  the  characters  he  met, 
to  understand  their  wants  and  their  ways  ;  and  many 
was  the  word  in  season  carelessly  dropped  from  his  lips 
that  did  a  blessed  errand,  all  the  more  because  it  was 
uttered  by  "  the  foolishness  of  man." 

"Did  ye  stop  to  Harris's  to-day?"  inquired  the  dea 
con,  as  Jim  rode  up  to  the  gate  one  frosty  morning, 
with  clattering  empty  cans. 

"  Well,  I  expect  I  did." 

"  Lef  the  quart,  I  s'pose,  'nd  didn't  git  nothin' 
for't?" 

"  No,  sir!  I  give  'era  somethin'  to  boot.  Ole  Harris 
came  to  the  door  for't ;  she's  done  up.  Doctor's  gig 
was  a-stannin'  there,  an'  he  was  clus  up  to  the  winder 
a-mixin'  a  mess,  'nd  ole  Harris  sez  :  '  Be  yo;i  Ellery's 
fool  ? '  — '  Yes,  I  be,  you  bet,'  sez  I,  pooty  cherk.  Then 
he  larfed  rough  as  bark.  '  Give  us  a  quart,'  sez  he  ; 
'  I  haint  got  no  change  to-day.'  —  '  Well,'  sez  I,  '  it  aint 


JERICHO    JIM.  63 

no  matter  's  long  's  ye're  to  hum ;  deacon  's  willin'  to 
trust  folks  t'  stay  to  hum.'  He  looked  orful  beat  'nd 
mad,  'nd  I  see  the  doctor  larfin' ;  but  he  took  the  milk, 
'nd  I  whipped  up,  I  tell  ye." 

Jericho  Jim  never  knew  that  Tim  Harris  stayed  at 
home  through  his  wife's  long  illness,  simply  to  be  sure, 
since  he  had  no  money  to  buy  it  with,  that  the  delicate 
baby,  sole  survivor  of  six,  should  have  its  regular 
food ;  for,  drunkard  and  idler  as  he  was,  he  had  a 
passionate,  reasonless  fondness  for  his  children ;  and 
when  one  after  another  they  died  he  sought  fresh  con 
solation  at  the  whiskey-shop.  But  this  one  lived, 
thanks  to  its  sudden  weaning  from  its  heart-broken, 
worn-out  mother,  whose  bitter  troubles  and  meagre 
food  had  poisoned  even  the  draught  of  life  for  her 
babies,  and  sent  them  to  untimely  graves.  While  she 
lay  helpless  and  raving  with  fever  for  nine  long  weeks, 
Tim  stayed  at  home,  nursed  her  as  well  as  he  could, 
tended  and  fed  the  baby,  who  learned  to  cry  for  him, 
instead  of  crying  at  the  sight  of  him  as  all  the  others 
had,  and  getting  fat  and  rosy  on  the  3Tellow  milk  that 
Jim  brought  daily  in  a  little  pail  from  the  deacon's 
Alderney,  wound  itself  round  the  father's  heart,  kept 
him  with  bands  stronger  than  iron  from  his  evil  haunts, 
taught  him  to  live  without  his  stimulant,  at  least  for 
so  long,  and  established  a  hold  on  him  never  lost.  It 
was  little  Rosy  Harris  who  in  after  years  coaxed  her 
father  into  good  habits,  and  made  her  mother's  last 
days  bright  and  calm  ;  but  it  was  Jericho  Jim  who  be 
gan  the  good  work  with  his  unauthorized  statement  of 
the  deacon's  willingness  to  trust  a  man  who  "  stayed 
to  hum." 

Curious  enough,  too,  were  Jim's  peace-making  pro- 


64  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

pensities.  These  clouded  or  straying  minds  sometimes 
take  a  certain  elfish  delight  in  mischief,  but  his  desire 
and  delight  was  peace.  Miss  Nancy  Vance  was  a  thin 
and  somewhat  bitter  old  maid,  yet  gifted  with  a  good 
deal  of  sense,  and  tolerably  reasonable  ;  about  half  a 
mile  from  her  little  brown  house,  where  she  lived  with 
a  bedridden  mother,  and  did  tailoring,  lived  the 
Widow  Pyne,  a  noisy,  good-natured,  high-tempered 
woman ;  quick  to  resent  or  to  fancy  an  injury,  but 
equally  quick  to  forgive.  Between  her  and  Miss  Nancy 
raged  a  feud  of  such  strength  and  bitterness  as  is  only 
to  be  found  in  a  little  country  village  between  people 
whose  minds  are  narrowed  by  their  limited  horizon  and 
slight  experience.  They  were  both  church-members, 
but  they  would  neither  look  at  each  other  across  the 
meeting-house,  nor  recognize  each  other  in  the  porch. 
Miss  Nancy  always  called  Mrs.  Pyne  "  that  pesky 
widow,"  and  was  styled  in  return,  with  more  vigor  than 
reticence,  "  that  darned  old  maid." 

Jericho  Jim  was  aware  of  this,  and  many  a  time 
shrunk  as  if  from  a  pin-prick  or  a  blow  when  one  be 
gan  to  vituperate  the  other,  and  openly  evaded  the 
subject. 

"  I  s'pose  old  Nance  Vance  takes  half  a  pint  o'  milk 
on  ye,  don't  she?"  inquired  Mrs.  Pyne,  with  a 
sniff. 

"  Land  o'  glory !  what  splendid  red  apples  them 
be !  "  ejaculated  Jim,  his  ears  shut  to  the  question, 
but  his  eyes  very  wide  open  to  an  Astrachan  apple- 
tree  in  the  corner  of  the  yard. 

Now  this  apple-tree  was  Widow  Pyne's  glory  ;  no 
body  in  Sawyer  had  such  a  tree  ;  and  she  petted  it  like 
a  baby,  dug  about  it  with  her  own  hands,  manured  it 


JERICHO    JIM.  65 

every  fall,  and  gave  it  copious  libations  of  dish-water 
all  through  the  summer.  No  tent  worms  ever  found 
lodgment  in  its  thrifty  branches ;  and  in  May  it  was 
always  pink  with  blossoms,  for  a  tree  so  coddled  had 
no  "off  year,"  but  bloomed  and  bore  in  every  return 
ing  season. 

It  was  "  a  sight  to  behold,"  as  its  gratified  owner 
remarked,  and  Jim's  admiration  was  so  fervent  Mrs. 
Pyne  could  not  do  less  than  reward  him  with  a  pocket 
full  of  the  glowing  fruit.  Jim  was  duly  gratified,  and 
jogged  on  his  way  revolving  a  scheme  in  his  simple 
mind  which  fructified,  literally,  as  he  found  himself  at 
Miss  Vance's  door.  Miss  Nancy  came  out  for  her 
pint  of  milk  looking  unusually  benign ;  some  of  the 
small  items  that  make  up  lonely  women's  lives  had  been 
gracious  that  morning :  perhaps  her  bread  had  risen 
just  right,  or  her  hens  had  done  their  duty  in  the 
matter  of  eggs  ;  but,  however  that  might  be,  she  had  a 
kindly  word  for  Jim,  and  he  poured  her  full  pint  with 
a  beaming  grin.  "Stop  a  minuit,  won't  ye?"  he 
called  after  her.  "  Won't  ye  jest  set  down  that  are 
milk,  'nd  hold  up  your  apern  ;  here's  some  o'  Miss 
Pyne's  amazin'  apples." 

"  Widder  Pyne's  apples !  "  ejaculated  the  amazed 
spinster,  as  she  received  the  crimson  spheres  into  her 
check  apron. 

"Yes,  them's  the  fellers  ;  she  sent  'em  along  o'  me. 
Good-day  !  "  With  which  ambiguous  statement  Jim 
whipped  up  the  old  horse  and  went  along  before  Miss 
Nancy  had  time  to  think. 

"  Well,  here's  nigh  onto  a  merracle  !  "  she  exclaimed 
to  herself .  "  Widder  Pyne's  apples!  I've  heerd  she 
sot  by  'em  dreadfully,  'nd  now  she's  been  'nd  sent  'em 


66  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

to  me.  "Well !  well !  well !  I'd  oughter  be  ashamed  o' 
myself,  that's  a  fact ;  'tis  shameful  for  church-members 
to  keep  up  a  querrel  the  way  we've  did  ;  but  she's  got 
the  start  o'  me,  that's  a  fact.  I  must  kinder  show  my 
feelin's  now,  surely." 

So  the  next  day  Jim  was  invited  to  stop  on  the  way 
back,  and  carry  Widow  Pyne  a  basket  of  fresh  eggs, 
for  eggs  were  Miss  Nancy's  specialty.  Imagine  Jim's 
secret  joy  and  Mrs.  Pyne's  noisy  surprise. 

"Sent  me  them  eggs?  Land  o'  Goshen !  she  aint 
weak  in  her  mind,  is  she,  Jim?  Must  be  a  leetle 
touched ;  or  else  I  be :  I  guess  she's  a  good  cretur, 
after  all.  I  dono  what  on  airth  hes  ailed  us  two  to  be 
allers  a-fightin',  and  now  she's  begun  it  I  guess  I  kin 
be  as  neighborly  as  other  folks.  Don't  ye  go  by  here 
to-morrow  without  gettin'  a  pocketful  o'  apples  for 
Nancy  Vance,  Jim.  Let's  see.  I'll  put  'em  in  the 
basket."  But  the  second  supply  of  apples  never 
reached  Miss  Nancy.  Jim  had  a  queer  sense  of  justice, 
and  a  squirrel's  love  for  nuts  and  fruit.  He  had  done 
a  good  work  with  the  other  apples,  and  lost  them,  as 
far  as  his  own  delectation  was  concerned  ;  these  others 
he  would  keep  for  his  own  eating  ;  and  his  very  simple- 
ness  made  up  for  wisdom,  for  a  second  supply  of  fruit 
would  certainly  have  led  to  awkward  explanations ; 
while,  as  it  was,  when  the  two  ladies  met  on  the  church 
steps  next  Sunday,  smiling  and  beaming  to  make  their 
mutual  acknowledgments,  there  were  no  questions  to 
ask  or  answer,  and  the}'  parted  in  friendliest  fashion, 
to  remain  firm  allies  thereafter. 

Not  far  from  the  Ellery  farm  there  lived  a  bad-tem 
pered,  cross-grained  old  fellow,  John  Dekin  by  name, 
who  had  driven  his  boys  away  from  home  long  ago 


JERICHO    JIM.  67 

by  dint  of  being  everything  a  father  ought  not  to  be  ; 
and  whose  wife  stayed  with  him  simply  because  she 
was  his  wife  :  a  fact  which  is  of  some  virtue  to  a 
good  woman.  Now  this  man  was  a  great  stickler  for 
his  rights :  he  had  a  right  to  do  as  he  liked  in  his 
own  house,  no  doubt ;  and  the  neighbors  agreed  that 
they  had  an  equal  right  to  keep  away  from  it !  All 
but  good  Mrs.  Ellery,  whose  great,  kind  heart  could 
not  see  a  woman  suffer  as  she  knew  Mrs  Dekin  must, 
and  not  try  to  alleviate  her  sufferings.  She  would  go 
there  persistently,  though  she  trembled  before  the  big 
dog,  and  quivered  at  the  sound  of  his  master's  voice  ; 
for  it  was  one  of  John  Dekin's  u  rights"  to  keep  the 
fiercest  dog  and  the  Grossest  bull  anywhere  about 
Sawyer.  Jericho  Jim  volunteered  to  go  with  Mrs. 
Ellery  when  she  paid  her  visits  to  the  Dekin  farm, 
and  as  there  never  was  a  dog  who  could  withstand 
Jim's  way  with  the  brute  creation,  he  and  Tige  soon 
became  the  best  of  friends. 

"  Hullo  !  "  said  the  farmer  one  day,  as  he  came  sud 
denly  round  the  corner  of  the  house,  and  found  Jim, 
who  had  just  escorted  Mrs.  Ellery  to  the  door,  sitting 
on  the  step  and  fondling  the  great  bull-dog,  who,  with 
watery  eyes  and  slobbering  jaws,  rested  his  muzzle  on 
Jim's  knee,  and  looked  up  into  the  thin,  kind  face 
above  him.  "  Hullo,  you  feller  !  look  out  for  that  crit 
ter  ;  he'll  be  into  ye  'nd  chaw  ye  up  'fore  ye  can  wink." 

"  I  guess  not,"  said  Jim,  with  one  of  his  half  silly, 
gentle  smiles.  "  He  knows  real  well  I  don't  want  to 
hurt  him  none  ;  so  he  don'  keer  to  hurt  me  ;  no  more 
he  will,  will  ye,  Tige?" 

The  dog's  stump  of  a  tail  wagged  affectionate 
answers. 


G8  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

"Well,  mebbe  it'll  do  with  dogs;  you  seem  to 
kinder  get  round  that  one  ;  but  it  aint  folkses  ways," 
growled  the  farmer. 

"Aint  it?"  said  Jim,  looking  up  innocently. 
"  Why,  I  thought  folks  knew  more'n  dogs  !  " 

There  was  no  answer  to  this.  John  Dekin  walked 
away  ;  and  there  ran  through  his  mind,  oddly  enough, 
a  scrap  of  a  text  he  had  heard  somewhere  ;  perhaps  his 
mother  read  it  to  him  ;  may  be  he  had  heard  it  at  meet 
ing,  though  he  generally  went  to  sleep  there,  —  "Is 
thy  servant  a  dog,  that  he  should  do  this  thing  ?  "  It 
clung  to  him  with  that  curious  persistence  peculiar  to 
texts,  which  defies  philosophical  explanation,  and  more 
than  once  thereafter  modified  some  currish  act,  or 
silenced  some  growl,  before  he  fully  recognized  the  in 
visible  restraint  upon  him.  Not  long  after,  that  vio 
lent  bull  of  Mr.  Dekin's  broke  into  Deacon  Ellery's  lot 
of  winter  wheat,  just  about  two  inches  high,  and  made 
a  general  mess  of  the  whole  field,  already  soaked  by  a 
wet  autumn.  Jim  discovered  the  creature  in  full  tide 
of  devastation,  browsing  on  the  tallest  spires,  and 
trampling  down  the  rest  into  undistinguishable  mud. 
He  sat  down  a  moment  and  considered  ;  then  filled  his 
pockets  with  potatoes,  left  in  the  next  lot  after  digging, 
as  too  small  to  save,  and  carefully  tossed  one  over  the 
fence  just  before  the  old  bull's  nose  ;  the  bait  was  too 
tempting,  the  creature  nipped  it  up  at  once,  another 
fell  about  a  foot  in  front  of  him,  then  another  still 
further  off,  and  following  the  fence,  which  tended 
toward  the  barn-yard,  Master  Taurus,  before  he  really 
understood  the  snare,  was  beguiled  into  his  own 
quarters,  and  the  gate  shut  fast  behind  him.  Then  Jim 
hunted  up  the  farmer. 


JERICHO    JIM.  69 

"  Say,  Mr.  Dekin  ;  hed  you  jest  as  lives  keep  that 
are  splendid  ole  bull  o'  yourn  in  the  barn  a  spell,  till  I 
git  our  folkses  fence  sot  up  ?  " 

"  Why,  what  harm's  he  ben  a-doin'?  Haint  I  a  right 
to  keep  a  bull  in  my  own  lot,  I  want  to  know  ?  " 

"  Sartinly,  sartinly !  but  ye  see  the  poor  cretur 
wanted  a  fresh  bite,  an'  he  kinder  pushed  down  the 
fence  like,  an'  got  into  some  winter  wheat ;  so  I 
guessed  I'd  git  him  out  ou't  fust "  — 

"  How  in  thunder  did  ye  get  him  out?  That's  the 
pint." 

"  Well,  I  coaxed  him  aleetle  ;  sorter  tolled  him  along 
with  a  mess  o'  raw  potatoes  t'other  side  the  stun  wall. 
I  sec  he  hankered  after  fresh  victuals,  so  to  speak  ;  'nd 
I  dono's  I  blame  him." 

John  Dekiu  could  not  help  a  laugh ;  but  Jim  went 
on  quietly :  — 

"So  ef  you'd  jest  as  lives  keep  him  in  a  spell,  I'll 
hurry  up  an'  fix  the  fence,  'nd  then  he  can  go  out  to 
pastur'  ag'in,  leastwa}*s  while  there  is  pastur' ;  'twoiit 
last  no  great  now,  that's  a  fact." 

Now  the  fence  between  the  lots  was  Dekin's,  as  he 
very  well  knew,  and  he  could  have  been  made  to  pay 
well  for  the  damage  his  beast  had  done  ;  but  he  also 
knew  Deacon  Ellery  was  laid  up  with  an  attack  of 
rheumatism,  and  Jim  had  all  the  work  to  do ;  if  the 
fence  was  once  up  it  would  be  hard  work  to  make  the 
bull's  owner  pay  for  it,  so  he  grimly  assented. 

"Yes,  I'll  keep  him  tethered;  but  you  hurry  up 
with  your  old  fence." 

Jim  went  to  work  directly ;  hauled  the  rails,  dug  the 
post-holes,  and  hired  a  few  hours'  help  to  set  them ; 
before  the  next  night  that  winter  wheat  was  safely 


70  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

railed  in,  and  Deacon  Ellery,  feeling  a  little  better,  had 
his  factotum  into  the  bedroom  to  hear  an  account  of 
the  day's  proceedings,  which  Jim  composedly  gave  him. 

"Why,  you  darned  fool!  "  exclaimed  the  old  man, 
cross  with  pain,  and  testy  naturally,  "you've  been  a 
building  John  Dekin's  fence  to  keep  his  own  bull  out 
o'  my  lot !  What  upon  the  globe  did  ye  do  that  for  ?  " 

"  Well,  ye  see,  mister,"  said  Jim,  assuming  a  com 
fortable  sort  of  attitude,  as  who  should  say,  "  Come 
now,  let  us  reason  together,"  "  I  did  kinder  mistrust 
from  the  looks  o'  things  twas  his'n ;  but  thinks  me,  he 
aint  the  kind  to  up  and  do  right  off;  he  don't  care 
much  ef  his  bull  does  eat  up  your  wheat ;  I  expect  he's 
one  o'  them  that  didn't  hev  a  good  mother.  My !  ef 
he'd  ha'  had  my  mother  he'd  known  better,  ef  he  had 
ha'  been  a  fool.  But,  you  see,  folks  is  folksy ;  they 
aint  as  they  had  ought  ter  be,  and  you  can't  fix  'em  no 
way,  reely.  I  calc'lated  that  if  you  waited  for  him  the 
grain  'd  be  clean  lost ;  ef  ye  took  the  law  on  him,  why, 
that  would  be  time  an'  money  spent,  and  the  wheat  had 
oughter  be  a-growin'  ;  'twouldn't  never  grow  without 
fencin',  for  that  bull's  dreadful  obstropolous  ;  and  we 
hed  them  old  rails  hand}-.  Anyway  it's  fixed  now  ;  'nd 
ef  ye  want  to  jaw  him,  or  set  Squire  Jinks  onter  him, 
why,  there's  time  enough  while  the  wheat's  a-growin' 
ag'in  to  satisfy  ye  that  way." 

"You  go  'long,"  growled  the  deacon,  falling  back 
on  his  pillow;  "it's  a  pretty  piece  o'  business  to 
come  to  my  time  o'  life  to  learn  how  to  handle  thistles. 
I  don't  deny  but  what  I've  learned  suthin',  but  I  guess 
you'd  better  go  to  bed  now  ;  you're  all-fired  tired." 

"  Well  I  be,  some,"  and,  stretching  and  yawning, 
Jim  obeyed. 


JERICHO    JIM.  71 

"  That  aint  nobody's  fool,"  ejaculated  the  deacon, 
looking  after  him;  "  'r  if  he  is,  't's  a  plaguy  sight 
better  folly  than  most  folkses  wisdom." 

There  was  no  lawyer  sent  to  John  Dekin  ;  the  fence 
stood  firm  against  wintry  storms,  but  Jim  noticed 
that  the  bull  was  not  turned  into  that  lot  again ;  and 
when  spring  returned  the  grain  shot  up  in  full  luxuri 
ance,  thick  and  heavy-headed ;  none  the  worse  for  its 
accidental  pruning,  perhaps  all  the  better.  And,  be 
sides,  there  was  certainly  a  softening  in  John  Dekin's 
aspect  toward  his  neighbor ;  perhaps  not  unmingled 
with  contempt  for  the  deacon's  "  softness ; "  but 
still  a  grain  of  leaven  had  been  planted  in  this  un 
promising  lump  ;  time  —  perhaps  eternity  only —  could 
show  how  it  worked.  So  Jim  went  his  way  in  and 
about  Sawyer :  a  being  of  no  account  in  the  eyes  of 
most  people  ;  of  less  than  none  in  his  own  ;  but  plant 
ing  here  and  there  by  the  wayside  little  seeds  of 
kindness  and  humanity  that  blossomed  to  some  soul's 
delight  and  benefit.  "  She  hath  done  what  she  could," 
was  the  Lord's  own  commendation,  and  this  was  the 
lowly  measure  of  Jim's  desert ;  but  can  any  of  us  do 
more?  How  many  of  us  do  as  much?  How  many  of 
the  great  and  rich  leave  behind  them  a  grateful  record 
in  even  as  many  hearts  as  always  remembered  with 
tender  affection  poor  Jericho  Jim? 

But  it  was  reserved  for  him  to  do  the  great  service 
of  his  life  for  his  good  old  friends,  the  Ellerys.  It  has 
not  been  declared  to  you,  dear  reader,  any  more  than 
it  was  to  Jirn,  that  De:icon  Ellery  had  a  son  living  in  a 
distant  city,  who  for  some  ycurs  had  never  been  seen 
in  Sawyer,  nor  spoken  of  in  his  father's  house.  Sam 
Ellery  had  been  the  very  core  of  his  father's  heart,  to 


72  THE  srniNZ'S  CHILDREN. 

use  the  pathetic  Irish  phrase,  and  yet  he  never  found 
it  out ;  for,  with  the  painful  shyness  and  reticence  of  his 
race  and  nature,  Deacon  Ellery  hid  this  affection  deep 
in  silence  and  coldness.  He  was  a  rigid  Calvinist, 
and  had  striven  to  bring  up  Samuel  in  the  straitest  sect 
of  that  sort.  Dogmas  and  doctrines  are  husky  food 
for  a  bright,  brave,  joyful  soul  like  this  boy's ;  he 
never  took  to  them  kindly  ;  his  mother's  love  made  her 
religion  just  tolerable  to  him,  for  professedly  she  held 
her  husband's  faith.  Sam  could  believe  in  the  goodness 
and  tenderness  of  God  when  he  saw  and  heard  his 
mother ;  but  his  father's  stern  and  unflinching  hand 
closed  the  gates  which  he  was  most  desirous  of  open 
ing.  He  went  away  from  home  to  a  position  in  a 
bank  in  Boston,  where  he  began  as  "  boy,"  and  had 
now  arrived  at  the  office  of  cashier.  At  first  he  had 
returned  once  or  twice  a  year  to  the  old  home,  to  mother, 
and  also  to  keep  up  a  certain  }*outhful  sweethearting 
with  Annie  Palmer,  the  minister's  pretty  daughter ; 
but  as  he  grew  to  be  a  man,  and  remembered  bitterly 
his  father's  stern  belief,  he  made  use  of  his  freedom  to 
examine  into  religious  faiths,  and  naturally  enough 
rebounded  into  Unitarianism.  That  his  son  should 
become  a  member  of  that  sect  in  particular  was  the 
very  gall  and  bitterness  of  iniquitj'  to  the  old  deacon, 
who  could  better  have  borne  a  defection  in  almost  any 
other  direction  ;  and  in  what  he  called  righteous  wrath 
he  wrote  a  dreadful  letter  to  Samuel,  and  forbade  him 
ever  to  enter  his  doors  again  till  he  had  repented  of 
this  great  sin,  and  humbled  himself  in  dust  and  ashes 
for  betraying  his  Master,  as  the  deacon  was  pleased  to 
style  it.  Although  a  loving  and  entreating  letter  from 
his  mother  went  after  this  fulmination,  and  somewhat 


JERICHO    JIM.  73 

calmed  Sam's  first  contemptuous  anger,  and  though 
that  letter  was  answered,  and  a  fitful  correspondence 
carried  on  between  mother  and  son  through  Annie 
Palmer,  Sam  accepted  his  father's  alternative,  and 
stayed  away  from  his  home  as  persistently  as  the 
deacon  ignored  him  ;  for  he  was,  indeed,  "  a  chip  of  the 
old  block." 

His  name  was  never  named  in  the  family,  nor 
uttered  in  the  daily  prayer,  and  if  his  father's  heart 
ever  cried  after  him,  it  cried  in  silence. 

Now  Jericho  Jim  adored  the  minister's  daughter  with 
the  dumb  passion  of  a  faithful  dog.  It  was  the  great 
joy  of  his  life  to  have  her  come  to  the  door  with  the  milk- 
pitcher  for  him  to  fill,  as  she  sometimes  did ;  and  one 
pleasant  word  or  lovelj'  smile  made  Jim  happy  all  day. 
After  the  fashion  of  wiser  folks  he  paid  tribute  to  this 
goddess  continually.  He  brought  her  every  wild 
flower  in  its  season,  and  the  rarest  of  all ;  he  knew 
where  the  rhodora  grew,  and  gathered  its  early  blooms 
for  Annie  ;  delicate  orchids  unveiled  their  shy  haunts 
for  him,  and  the  slight  sweet  flowers  of  spring  all  lay 
at  Aunie's  feet  from  her  faithful  worshipper.  Cardinal 
flowers  and  spotless  pond-lilies  came  in  their  season  ; 
for  her  he  stored  the  biggest  nuts,  and  begged  the 
sweetest  fruits  that  grew  in  any  garden,  nor  ever 
begged  in  vain,  for  Jim  was  petted  and  privileged  in 
Sawyer.  Annie  was  mightily  joked  about  her  fervent 
admirer,  but  nobody  ever  laughed  at  Jim  ;  his  pathetic 
simplicity  shielded  him  like  a  young  girl's  innocence. 
But  Annie  knew  very  well  that  this  poor  boy  liked  her, 
though  not  how  deeply  ;  and  knowing,  too,  his  curious 
power  of  setting  people  to  rights,  it  occurred  to  her 
that  he  might  perhaps  pave  the  way  for  her  lover's 


74  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

reconciliation  with  his  father ;  for  the  careless  admira 
tion  of  the  deacon's  son  had  long  ago  deepened  into 
love,  and  Sam  Ellery  had  been  many  times  to  Sawyer 
to  see  Annie  Palmer  since  he  finally  left  his  father's 
door ;  and  now  they  were  soon  to  be  married,  and 
Annie  longed  with  all  her  heart  to  have  peace  between 
father  and  son. 

One  July  evening,  just  at  twilight,  Jericho  Jim 
arrived  at  the  door  of  Parson  Palmer's  house  with  the 
milk  for  Sunday,  which  was  always  carried  round 
Saturday  night,  and  also  with  a  pail  of  fresh  lilies 
from  Warren  pond. 

Annie  came  out  to  take  them,  fresh  and  cool  as  their 
spotless  blooms  herself ;  her  dark  hair  waved  above  a 
sweet,  colorless  face,  and  her  clear,  sad,  hazel  eyes 
looked  at  Jim  both  gratefully  and  wistfully. 

"O  Jim!  thank  you!  these  are  so  lovely.  Jim, 
there  is  one  thing  I  wish  you  could  help  me  about." 

"I'll  do  anything  I  can  in  the  natur'  of  things  to 
help  ye,  ma'am,  as  sure's  you're  born,"  he  answered  to 
the  half  question. 

"I  do  want  so  much  to  have  Deacon  Ellery  make 
friends  with  his  son." 

"Why,  he  haint  got  any!"  said  Jim,  with  simple 
confidence. 

"  Yes,  he  has,  Jim  ;  he  has  indeed  ;  but  they  haven't 
spoken  for  years." 

"  Sho  now  !  that  are  can't  be  ;  guess  you  dreamed 
it,  Miss  Annie.  Why,  Deacon  Ellery's  a  good  man ; 
a  Christian  cretur  as  ever  was ;  can't  be ;  somebody's 
ben  a  "  — 

"Annie!"  called  Mrs.  Palmer,  evidently  in  haste ; 
and  Jim  drove  off,  feeling  in  an  uncertain  sort  of  way 


JERICHO    JIM.  75 

as  if  he  hadn't  heard,  or  ought  not  to  have  heard,  such 
things  about  his  best  friend,  even  from  the  adorable 
Annie.  But  the  thing  worked  in  his  feeble  head,  and 
as  "Fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread,"  and 
sometimes  do  good  service  by  their  folly,  so  Jim 
plunged  into  the  middle  of  things  the  very  next  morn 
ing  as  he  was  brushing  the  shoes  for  church-going, 
while  the  deacon  read  over  his  Sunday-school  lesson 
by  the  window. 

"Say!    you  haint  got  any  son,  have  3*6,  deacon?" 

The  old  man  looked  at  Jim  with  an  air  of  terror 
as  well  as  wonder,  and  turned  pale  as  ashes. 

"  Yes,  I've  got  a  son,"  he  answered  mechanically. 

"  Why,  I  haint  never  seen  him,"  exclaimed  Jim,  as 
if  still  he  scarcely  believed. 

"  He  has  not  been  at  home  for  five  long  years,  Jim  ; 
he  is  a  prodigal  who  filleth  himself  with  husks,"  sol 
emnly  replied  the  deacon,  who  had  somewhat  recov 
ered  his  poise. 

:<  Well,  why  don't  ye  fetch  him  home  'nd  give  him 
suthin'  better  to  eat  ?  " 

The  deacon  stared  at  Jim,  but  could  not  answer. 

"What's  he  ben  'nd  done  anyway?"  went  on 
the  simple  torturer.  "Killed  anybody?  Stole  any- 
thin'  ?  " 

"No!  no!  no!"  ejaculated  the  deacon,  raging  in- 
wardty  between  the  persistency  of  his  questioner  and 
the  impossibility  of  explaining  to  him  the  reason  of 
Sum's  banishment.  Perhaps,  too,  the  reason  why  this 
was  so  difficult  to  explain  began  to  wrestle  with  his 
conscience. 

"  Well,  I'm  dretful  sorry,"  said  Jim,  musingly. 
"  My  daddy,  now,  was  a  poor  cretur,  drunk,  mostly; 


76  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

but  be  was  real  good  to  me.  I'm  glad  he  wa'n't  no 
better ;  mebbe  I  shouldn't  ha'  ben  good  enough  for  him 
to  speak  to,  too." 

The  deacon  could  have  struck  Jim,  who  went  on 
brushing  the  shoes  as  seriously  as  if  they  were  an 
algebraic  problem. 

"  Well,  Jim,  the  fact  is,  he  didn't  believe  in  the 
Bible  — Sam  didn't." 

"Poor  cretur  !  poor  cretur !  "  said  Jim,  warming 
into  sympathy  at  once.  "  Well,  deacon  ;  ye  know 
what  you  was  a-readin'  about  to  me  last  Sabba'-day ;  a 
tryin'  to  drive  in  ter  my  head,  }*e  know  ?  —  takes  a  lot  o' 
time  to  drive  anythin'  into  a  fool's  head  ;  but  I  can't 
disremember  that,  'twas  so  kinder  marciful  like,  'bout 
how  the  good  Lord  forgiv'  them  ft-llers  that  killed  him, 
'cause  he  said  they  didn't  know  what  the}*  was  a-doin'. 
Mebbe  your  Sam  don't ;  what  ef  ye  was  to  take  him  to 
Sabba'-school,  an'  larn  him  better?  You  tell  me  where 
he  stays,  'nd  I'll  go  fetch  him." 

Jim  was  in  eager  earnest ;  his  e}'es  were  lit  with  un 
usual  rays,  and  one  hand  held  awkwardly  out  toward 
the  deacon  ;  but  the  old  man  could  not  answer ;  he 
stumbled  away  to  the  bedroom  and  fell  on  his  knees  by 
the  bedside.  What  he  said  to  God  is  not  for  us  to 
know ;  what  he  did  was  to  write  a  letter  that  very 
night  to  Samuel,  and  beg  him  to  come  home  to  his  old 
father  and  his  loving  mother. 

As  for  Jim,  the  matter  passed  clear  out  of  his  oddly 
rnade-up  mind  ;  he  had  satisfied  himself  the  deacon  had 
a  son  ;  the  immediate  curiosity  was  at  rest.  He  did  not 
see  Annie  Palmer  the  next  day  ;  in  fact  so  inconse 
quent  were  his  mental  processes  when  under  the  exter 
nal  excitement  he  did  not  once  think  of  what  she  said 


JERICHO    JIM.  77 

to  him  ;  but  only  missed  her  as  he  would  miss  sunshine, 
or  fire,  or  food  ;  for  Annie  had  become  a  necessity  to 
the  largest  share  of  his  nature  —  his  heart. 

A  week  after  Mrs.  Ellery  came  out  into  the  garden 
where  Jim  was  weeding. 

"O  Jim!"  said  she,  "my  dear  son,  my  Sam,  is 
comin'  home  to-morrer  ;  and  goin'  to  be  married." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  on't,"  cheerfully  answered  Jim. 

"Yes,  he's  a-comin'  home  to-morrer.  I  haint  sot 
eyes  on  him  this  five  year  an'  more ;  and  a  Thursday 
he's  a-goin'  to  be  married  to  Annie  Palmer." 

"O  Lord!"  said  Jim,  with  a  gasp;  but  the  good 
woman  did  not  hear  him :  heart  and  head  were  full  of 
Sam,  and  she  turned  and  went  into  the  house. 

Jim  did  not  come  in  after  milking  that  night ;  the 
deacon  found  him  curled  down  in  a  corner  of  the 
barn. 

"  I  guess  I'm  sick,"  was  all  he  said ;  but  somehow 
he  reminded  the  deacon  of  an  old  dog  he  once  had, 
that  was  mortally  wounded  by  accident,  and  stole  into 
that  very  corner  to  die.  There  was  the  same  hurt, 
protesting  look  in  both  pairs  of  eyes. 

They  took  Jim  into  his  own  room,  and  in  a  day  or 
two  he  was  better,  but  never  well  again  ;  he  lived  a 
few  months,  feeble,  patient,  smiling,  and  doing  all  he 
could.  The  only  queer  thing  about  him  was  that  he 
never  asked  to  see  Annie  Palmer,  or  even  spoke  her 
name  again.  Sam  went  upstairs  to  see  him,  but  Jim 
was  asleep,  he  said,  and  he  wouldn't  waken  him.  Per 
haps  Deacon  Ellery,  being  a  reticent  man,  never  told 
his  son  how  much  he  owed  to  the  poor  fool.  Annie 
forgot  him  too,  probably  ;  but  what  can  you  expect  of 
a  happy  young  bride?  When  winter  came,  Jim  went. 


78  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

Dr.  Green  said  the  cold  was  too  great  for  such  a  low 
state  of  vitality  ;  perhaps  it  was.  However  that  might 
be,  one  starry  and  splendid  night  a  quick  flash  sprung 
into  the  languid  eyes.  "Mother!  "he  said,  with  an 
accent  of  rapture,  and  Jericho  Jim  was  gone  to  the 
Jerusalem  which  is  above. 


LOST  ON  A  RAILWAY.  79 


LOST  ON  A  RAILWAY. 


"  MOOSOP  STATION!"  roared  the  conductor  on  the 
H.  P.  &  F.  R.R.,  as  advertisements  economically  style 
that  line  of  road  that  cuts  Connecticut  in  two,  —  as  far 
as  it  goes,  —  probably  on  the  principle  that  it  might  go 
farther  and  fare  worse,  or  rather  get  no  fares. 

The  train  stopped,  the  axles  screeched,  the  whistle 
shrieked,  and  the  engine  sent  out  side-puffs  of  spiteful 
steam,  and  on  the  platform  stood  a  little  old  lady  with 
a  big  new  bandbox,  in  that  state  of  mingled  confusion 
and  excitement  common  to  old  ladies  from  the  coun 
try  in  prospect  of  a  journey,  particularly  a  journey 
after  that  incarnation  of  Young  America,  —  a  loco 
motive. 

"  Good-by,  mother  !"  said  a  mild-looking,  dark-eyed 
woman,  giving  the  old  lady  a  kiss. 

"Good-by,  gran'ma,"  shouted  a  thick-set  boy  from 
his  station  beside  the  engine,  which  he  was  surveying, 
much  as  if  he  had  taken  an  order  to  build  one,  and 
meant  to  improve  on  this  pattern. 

"  Oh,  dear  me  !  where's  my  bundle?  —  no,  my  band 
box  !  I  declare  if  I  haint  got  it  in  my  hand,  after  all ! 
—  Good-by,  Sary  !  Good-by,  Sammy  !  Where's  John? 
Oh,  here  he  is !  John,  where's  my  umberell?" 

"Here  it  is,  mother;  now  get  in,"  answered  an 
elderly  man,  who  stood  at  her  elbow. 


80  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

"  But  vvhere's  my  piece  of  string?  —  and  the  apples? 
—  and  you  haint  lost  that  fennel,  have  ye,  Sary  ?" 

"  All  aboard  !  "  again  roared  the  conductor,  and  the 
old  lacly  made  for  the  car,  with  John  after  her,  holding 
in  his  hand  the  basket  of  apples,  with  a  piece  of  string 
knotted  to  the  handle,  a  bundle  of  dry  fennel,  and  a 
blue  cotton  umbrella.  John  could  get  no  farther  than 
the  door,  for  the  cars  began  to  move.  lie  piled  the 
things  upon  tl~e  old  lady's  bandbox,  and  swung  him 
self  off,  just  in  time  to  get  upon  the  end  of  the  platform, 
leaving  his  mother-in-law  a  picture  of  confusion. 

However,  the  old  lady  righted  herself  pretty  quickly  ; 
she  tied  her  fennel  to  one  end  of  the  string,  took  the 
umbrella  in  one  hand  and  the  bandbox  in  the  other, 
hung  the  basket  on  the  umbrella  handle,  which  she 
held  horizontally,  and  proceeded  to  find  a  seat.  There 
were  none  empty,  but  several  occupied  b}'  only  one 
woman  ;  and,  guided  by  the  instinct  of  dress  that  almost 
all  women  possess,  she  stopped  beside  one  of  those 
whose  occupant's  peculiar  array  stamped  her  as  a 
country  woman,  and  gave  her  a  familiar  aspect  to  our 
heroine. 

"  Can  I  set  here?"  said  the  old  lady,  giving  a  little 
poke  to  the  woman's  elbow,  who  looked  round  with 
the  forbidding  expression  common  to  single  or  solitary 
females  when  assaulted  by  that  question  in  the  cars. 
But  as  soon  as  she  caught  sight  of  her  questioner's  face 
within  the  frill  of  her  black  bonnet,  she  smiled  a  be 
nignant  smile  of  welcome,  and  said,  in  a  loud,  cheerful 
voice  :  — 

"  Why,  'taint  you,  Miss  Dodd,  is  it?" 

"  Well,  I  declare,"  said  the  old  lad}7,  who  recog 
nized  a  neighbor  from  the  town  next  her  own,  "  I  am 


LOST  ON  A   RAILWAY.  81 

beat  now !  When  did  you  leave  home,  Miss  Pack 
ard?" 

"  Why,  I  come  away  this  morning.  But  set  down, 
set  down.  I'm  real  glad  it's  you  ;  I  never  do  fellow 
ship  strange  folks  sottin'  in  the  same  seat  with  me  on 
the  railroad  ;  seems  so  intimate  like,  and  they  'most 
always  crowd." 

"  I'm  goin'  to  hang  my  basket  up  before  I  sot 
down,"  remarked  Mrs.  Dodd.  "  John,  he  put  a  string 
ou't  so  as  to  be  handy." 

She  stretched  up  her  arm  across  Mrs.  Packard's 
head  to  hang  up  her  apples,  but  at  that  unlucky 
moment  a  sharp  jar  shook  the  car,  and  the  apples  roll 
ing  out  of  the  basket  fell  on  the  head  below,  and  Mrs. 
Packard  sprung  up  in  a  fury,  her  straw  bonnet,  lib 
erally  adorned  with  red  flowers,  thoroughly  smashed, 
and  her  head  well  bruised. 

"  Good  gracious  !  "  said  she,  darting  a  sharp  look  at 
Mrs.  Dodd,  who  was  holding  on  to  the  seat,  pretty 
well  frightened.  "  Good  gracious  !  them  apples  have 
a'most  broke  1113-  skull !  and  they've  smashed  my  bun- 
net  all  up  !  I  don't  see  what  folks  do  want  to  carry 
sech  things  for !  " 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  the  old  lady,  "  it  is  too  bad,  I  do 
say  !  But  what  on  airth  jounced  all  these  cars  so  ?  I 
do  believe  we've  run  away  !  " 

"Well,"  was  Mrs.  Packard's  indignant  reply,  "I 
guess  if  we  had,  you  wouldn't  be  a-talkin'  about  it!" 

"  Don't  you  want  some  rum  onto  your  head?  "  said 
Mrs.  Dodd,  anxious  to  repair  the  injuries  her  apples 
had  committed. 

"  I  guess  I  had  better  have  some,"  was  the  mollified 
reply,  evidently  expecting  the  old  lady  to  hand  over 


82  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN1. 

the  lotion  from  her  bandbox  or  her  pocket.  But  she 
innocently  answered :  — 

"•  I  wonder  if  the  conductor  haint  got  any.  I 
should  think  he'd  keep  some  in  case  of  bruises  and 
cuts." 

An  indignant  sniff  was  the  sole  remark  Mrs.  Packard 
hazarded ;  and  the  old  lady,  after  picking  up  her 
apples,  which  had  rolled  hither  and  yon  through  the 
car,  quietly  established  herself  in  the  seat  beside  her 
friend,  who  was  occupied  in  pinching  up  and  pulling 
out  the  crushed  bonnet  and  its  decorations.  Just  as 
bandbox,  umbrella,  apples,  and  fennel  were  all  finally 
arranged,  the  conductor  came  by. 

"Ticket,  ma'am!  " 

Mrs.  Dodd  was  a  long  time  getting  it.  Out  of  her 
deep  pocket  came  all  its  contents  before  the  missing 
card  was  found :  three  keys  on  a  blue  string,  one  red 
silk  handkerchief  and  one  white  cambric  one,  two 
pieces  of  flag-root,  an  old  silk  purse  with  change  in  it, 
half  a  nutmeg,  a  silver  thimble,  a  tape-needle,  a  little 
almanac,  a  box  of  Daily's  Pain  Extractor,  and  one  of 
corn  salve,  a  pin- ball,  and  a  pair  of  scissors,  a  lemon, 
and  two  peppermints,  a  small  ball  of  blue  yarn,  a  bit 
of  Turkey  rhubarb,  three  peanuts,  and  a  pair  of  black 
silk  gloves,  in  whose  folds  was  the  ticket.  But  while 
this  investigation  was  going  on  Mrs.  Dodd  improved 
jier  time  in  questioning  the  conductor. 

"  What  did  make  these  cars  jump  so  a  little  while 
back,  sir?  " 

"  Cow  on  the  track,"  laconically  growled  the  man. 

"  Dew  tell !  "  said  the  old  lady,  in  an  accent  of  hor 
ror,  —  l'  was't  a  red  caow?  " 

"  Pretty  red  when  I  see  her,"  grimly  remarked  he. 


LOST  ON  A   RAILWAY.  83 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  now  if  'twas  Miss  Jacob 
Smith's  old  Red,"  went  on  she.  "  I  heerd  her  tell  how 
her  caow  would  run  acrost  the  track  comin'  home  from 
pastur'.  Why,  here's  my  yarn,  and  Sammy's  peanuts  't 
I  took  away  from  him  last  night  when  he  was  goiii'  to 
eat  'em  in  bed ;  poor  little  fellow,  he'll  think  gran'ma 
is  dreadful !  I  declare  I  did  mean  't  he  should  have 
'em  again.  You  didn't  hear  whose  caow  it  was,  did 
you,  sir  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  emphasized  the  conductor,  who  wanted  the 
ticket,  —  and  at  last  got  it ! 

By  this  time  Mrs.  Packard's  bonnet  was  bent  out 
to  its  pristine  shape  and  splendor,  and  Mrs.  Dodd, 
recalled  from  her  ticket-hunt,  remembered  the  bruises 
and  called  the  conductor  back  in  so  loud  and  earnest  a 
voice  that  he  could  not  affect  not  to  hear  her,  and  un 
willingly  turned. 

"  Say,  Mr.  Conductor,  you  haven't  got  any  old  rum, 
have  you?  I  want  to  wet  her  head  with  *t." 

The  conductor,  I  regret  to  say,  became  profane. 

"  Wh}-,  he  swears  !  "  ejaculated  the  old  lady,  with  an 
accent  of  horror  and  surprise. 

Mrs.  Packard  laughed ;  a  touch  of  superiority 
restored  her  temper  ;  she  could  afford  to  be  amiable  to 
a  woman  who  knew  so  little  of  the  ways  of  the  world 
as  Mrs.  Dodd.  So  she  resumed  the  conversation. 

"  You  haven't  told  me  yet  where  you're  goin',  Miss 
Dodd." 

"  Me?  Wh}",  I'm  goin'  to  Albany,  to  see  my  son 
Jehiel,  he  that  studied  for  the  ministry,  and  was 
settled  a  spell  in  Westbury,  and  then  down  to  Fall 
River,  and  now  he's  ben  in  Albany  quite  a  spell,  — five 
years  I  guess,  —  and  I  haven't  ben  to  see  him  never. 


84  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

You  see  Sary  she's  bed  young  childern,  and  I  hevu't 
felt  as  though  I  could  leave  her  to  worry  it  through 
alone.  But  now  they're  pretty  well  grown  ;  Sammy 
he's  the  smallest,  and  Jehiel  wouldn't  hear  to  my  stay- 
in'  away  no  longer  ;  I  was  bound  to  go  and  stay  there 
a  year.  So  John  he  sent  my  trunk  somehow,  by  ex 
press,  I  expect,  so  't  I  shouldn't  hev  no  trouble,  and 
I'm  a-goin'  in  to  Hartford  and  down  to  York,  and 
John's  brother  he's  goin'  to  meet  me  there,  and  find 
somebody  that's  goin'  that  way,  who'll  take  me  along. 
It's  quite  a  voyage  out  to  Indianny,  and  I  don't  hanker 
much  to  go." 

"Out  to  Indianny!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Packard. 
"Why,  Albany's  in  York  State ;  'taint  out  there." 

"  Why,  yes  it  is,"  stoutly  answered  Mrs.  Dodd. 

"  Why,  Miss  Dodd,  it  aint !  I  guess  I  know  where 
Albany  is  ;  his  sister's  son,  Joe  Weed,  Jives  to  Albany  ; 
and  when  he  had  a  liver  complaint,  and  had  to  go  to 
Saratogue  a  spell  (he's  got  a  nephew  't  keeps  a  bakery 
to  Saratogue,  so  it  didn't  cost  no  great),  he  slep  to 
Albany,  to  Joe  Weed's  house,  and  he  said  'twas  queer 
wh}-  they  had  it  for  the  capital  to  York  State  when 
York  City  was  so  much  the  biggest.  I  know  'taint  in 
Indianny  !  " 

(Dear  reader,  let  me  tell  you,  par  parenthdse,  that 
"he,"  to  a  Connecticut  woman,  always  means  "my 
husband."  Grammar  fails  before  conjugal  devotion ; 
there  is  but  one  man  to  our  Mrs.  Packards,  and  the 
personal  pronoun  is  sacred  to  that  one.) 

"  Well,"  rather  irresolutely  replied  Mrs.  Dodd,  "  I 
know  Jehiel  said  'twas  Indiann}-,  and  so  did  John  ;  and, 
come  to  think  out,'  Jehiel's  letters  always  have  New 
Albany  on  'em,  but  I  never  heerd  John  call  it  New." 


LOST  OX  A   RAILWAY.  85 

"  I  don't  say  but  what  there  may  be  an  Albany  or 
even  a  Ntw  Albany  out  to  Indianny,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Packard,  with  dignity;  "but  I  do  say  I  haint  never 
heerd  of  no  Albany  except  the  one  in  York  State  ;  and 
if  there  was  one  out  in  Indianny  I  don't  see  why  John 
should  send  you  to  York  to  go  there ;  it  appears 
more  likely  you  should  go  to  the  York  State  Albany 
from  there." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  feebly  answered  the  old 
lady;  "  I  expect  John's  brother '11  know.  I  feel 
rather  uncertain  about  changin'  cars  to  Hartford. 
After  that,  I  expect  I'll  go  straight." 

"  There  aint  no  difficulty  to  Hartford,"  condescended 
Mrs.  Packard.  "  You've  jest  got  to  step  acrost  the 
depott,  and  there  '11  come  along  a  train  by-'n-by,  and 
you  jest  ask  ef  that's  the  Albany  train  —  I  would  say 
the  York  train  —  and  they'll  tell  you,  somebody  will. 
I  wish  't  I  was  a-goin'  as  fur  as  that  myself,  but  I 
aint.  I'm  goin'  to  stop  to  Manchester  to  see  my 
sister  Lucy-Ann  ;  she's  got  a  bad  complaint  of  her 
vitals,  and  I  ruther  expect  she  won't  survive.  Any 
way,  I'm  goin'  to  nuss  her  for  a  spell." 

"  I  declare  I  do  wish  you  was  goin'  along,"  said  the 
old  lady,  in  a  wistful  voice.  "  I'm  kind  o'  hampered 
with  these  bundles  and  things.  But  my  trunk  was 
packed,  and  I  thought  maybe  I'd  have  to  stop  quite  a 
while  in  York,  and  this  pongee  I'm  ridin'  in  isn't  very 
much  to  look  at,  so  I  put  up  my  best  black  silk  gown, 
and  two  frilled  caps,  and  some  handkerchers,  so't  I 
needn't  appear  otherwise  than  conformable  to  city 
folks's  ways ;  and  then  I  knew  James  Greene  (that's 
John's  brother,  leastways  his  step-brother)  was  ex 
treme  fond  of  Roxbury  russets,  so  I  concluded  to  take 


86  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

along  a  few :  they  have  kept  over  so  well  —  why,  it's 
June  the  tenth  to-day  ;  and  I  couldn't  go  without  my 
umberell  no  way,  if  it  should  come  on  to  rain  ;  and 
then  I  had  the  fennel  so  't  if  I  should  be  sick  to  my 
stomach  a-ridin'  in  the  cars,  it's  very  warmin'  "  — 

"  Manchester  !  "  interposed  the  conductor,  and  Mrs. 
Packard  bundled  out  of  the  cars  with  a  rapid  fare 
well  to  her  travelling  companion,  and  left  the  old 
lady  alone.  Before  long  the  train  rolled  into  the 
Hartford  station,  and  Mrs.  Dodd,  somewhat  confused 
by  the  rush  of  people  out  of  the  cars,  and  the  vocifera 
tions  of  the  hackmen,  gathered  up  her  "  things  "  and 
stepped  off  the  train,  coming  down  the  long  step  quite 
unawares,  with  a  bounce  that  made  her  drop  her 
bandbox  and  exclaim  :  — 

"  Oh,  goodness  !  I  believe  I  have  bumped  my  bun- 
net  off ! " 

But  the  approach  of  a  predatory  hackman  made  her 
grasp  the  precious  box  again,  and  let  go  of  the  bonnet. 

"  Allyn  House,  ma'am?  " 

"Hay?"  replied  the  bewildered  old  lady,  as  another 
man  behind  her  screamed,  "United  States  Hotel!  — 
where's  yer  checks  ?  " 

"Why,  I  left  'em  to  home,"  was  the  nai've  reply, 
"  a-hangin'  behind  the  milk-room  door." 

"  City  Hotel ! — give  me  your  box,  ma'am.  Any 
more  baggage  ?  " 

' '  Why,  what  do  you  want  of  my  box  ?  I  haint  got 
no  trunk,  it's  gone  to  Albany." 

Just  then  a  train  screeched  into  the  station  and  com 
pleted  Mrs.  Dodd's  confusion,  while  it  drowned  the 
drivers'  voices  ;  and,  seeing  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done  with  the  old  lady,  they  left  her  staring  at  the 


LOST  ON  A  RAILWAY.  87 

locomotive,  as  thoroughly  confused  as  ever  any  old 
lady  was.  "  Dear  me  !"  soliloquized  she  ;  "  seems  as 
though  my  head  would  bust."  Just  then  her  eye 
caught  a  placard,  "  Beware  of  pickpockets  !  "  A  look 
of  alarm  and  horror  crossed  her  face  ;  she  shifted  the 
apples  and  the  "  umberell "  all  to  one  hand,  and  grasped 
her  pocket  firmly  with  the  other,  thereby  drawing  up 
her  gray  pongee  dress,  and  displaying  to  all  beholders 
a  pair  of  thick-set  ankles  cased  in  blue  cotton  stock 
ings,  and  the  goodly  feet  to  which  they  belonged 
clothed  with  prunella  shoes,  whose  shape  betrayed  the 
swollen  joints  and  crooked  shapes  that  were  the  reward 
of  hard  work  and  cheap  shoe-leather.  Certainly  Mrs. 
Dodd  did  not  look  one  whit  less  funny  to  the  loungers 
and  employe's  in  that  station-house  because  she  was 
one  of  the  kindest  and  best  old  ladies  in  the  world  !  If 
love  and  truth  and  unselfishness  want  to  be  appreciated, 
the}'  must  wear  hoops  and  sacques  and  coats  with 
big  sleeves  ;  not  pongee-skirts  and  black  bombazine 
bonnets,  or  even  blue  yarn  stockings  !  As  she  stood 
there  glaring  through  her  silver-rimmed  spectacles,  and 
trying  to  recall  Mrs.  Packard's  advice,  the  station-mas 
ter  came  by,  and  she  appealed  to  him,  for  she  despaired 
of  finding  out  for  herself. 

"  Sir,"  said  she,  tremulously,  quite  forgetting  in  her 
confusion  where  she  was  going,  ' '  are  them  the  Albany 
cars  ?  " 

"That's  the  New  Haven,  Hartford,  and  Springfield 
train,  ma'am  ;  you  can  go  to  Albany  by  it,  or  you  can 
go  to  New  York  or  to  Boston." 

"  Oh,  well !  it's  York  I'm  going  to  ;  thankee,  sir." 

Somebody  called  the  station-master,  and  he  walked 
rapidly  away,  while  the  old  lady  picked  her  way  across 


88  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

the  tracks,  and  with  some  difficulty  clambered  into  the 
cars  on  the  wrong  side,  nothing  doubting  but  that  she 
was  all  right,  when  in  fact  she  had  taken  the  up  train. 

She  sat  down  behind  two  ladies,  young  and  fash 
ionably  dressed,  and  presently  the  train  moved  off. 
Poor  Mrs.  Dodd,  tired  with  the  worry  and  bustle  of 
the  morning,  fell  asleep,  and  the  conductor,  having  an 
old  mother  himself,  compassionately  forbore  to  wake 
her  on  his  first  round.  But  next  time  he  tried  to  rouse 
her,  as  they  neared  a  station,  and  possibly  she  might 
wish  to  get  off;  the  old  lady  slept,  however,  so  soundly 
that  shakings  and  callings  seemed  all  in  vain,  much  to 
the  amusement  of  the  two  women  before  her.  But  one 
behind,  more  considerate,  offered  her  bottle  of  salts  to 
the  conductor,  who  applied  it  with  such  effect  that  Mrs. 
Dodd  jumped  up,  spilled  her  basket  of  apples  out  of 
her  lap,  and  looked  about  her  with  a  dismayed  and 
alarmed  expression,  irresistible  to  behold.  Even  the 
conductor  laughed. 

"  Do  you  want  to  get  off  here,  ma'am?  "  said  he. 

"  Where  is't?  where  is't?  We  haven't  got  to  York, 
have  we?  Oh,  my  apples  !  I  declare  for  't,  they've  all 
rolled  away  !  " 

"  Thompsonville  !  "  shouted  the  brakeman,  as  the 
conductor  did  not  fulfil  that  particular  part  of  his  duty, 
being  occupied  with  Mrs.  Dodd.  "  Are  you  going  off 
here,  ma'am  ?  "  repeated  this  latter  functionary. 

"  No,  I'm  goin'  further.     I'm  goiu'  to  York." 

The  conductor  did  not  wait  to  hear  the  latter  part 
of  her  answer,  he  was  obliged  to  see  to  other  affairs. 
So  long  as  the  old  lady  didn't  mean  to  get  off,  he  could 
wait  for  her  ticket  till  their  brief  stop  at  the  station 
was  over.  And  she,  by  this  time  wide  awake,  began 


LOST  ON  A  RAILWAY.  89 

to  collect  her  scattered  apples,  —  a  task  of  no  small 
difficult}',  between  the  mischievousness  of  two  school 
boys  who  had  already  possessed  themselves  of  three  or 
four,  and  the  spread  of  sundry  hoops  thut  concealed 
others.  At  length  she  had  gathered  the  better  part  of 
her  fruit,  feeling  rather  puzzled  by  the  earnest  declara 
tion  of  the  boys  that  they  hadn't  seen  such  a  thing, 
when  she  had  found  three  rolled  beyond  them  ;  and 
just  as  she  stooped  to  pick  up  one  more  the  train 
started  and  pitched  her  forward.  Luckily  the  bom 
bazine  bonnet  took  the  brunt  of  her  fall,  the  front 
crushed  in  and  saved  her  face,  but  the  bonnet  was 
deplorable  ;  and  the  poor  old  lady's  discomfiture  was 
completed  by  the  malicious  tittering  of  the  "ladies" 
before  her. 

As  soon  as  she  was  seated  the  conductor  came  back ; 
his  face  twitched  a  little  at  Mrs.  Dodd's  aspect :  the 
pongee  was  streaked  with  dust  from  the  car-floor ;  the 
bonnet  bent  in  angles  that  were  none  of  them  right 
angles,  and  her  attempts  at  straightening  it  had  only 
multiplied  them  ;  her  face  was  flushed  with  heat  and 
mortification,  and  she  had  put  down  her  basket  of 
apples  on  the  floor  between  her  feet,  which  steadied  it 
as  resolutely  as  if  they  were  glued  to  either  side. 

"  Where's  your  ticket,  ma'am?  "  said  he. 

"  Why,  I  haint  got  none,"  she  answered,  meekly. 
"  I  thought  you  kep'  'em." 

"  Didn't  you  get  one  at  the  office?  " 

"  Well,  I  declare,  I  forgot  John  told  me  to,  I  was  in 
sech  a  hurry.  You  see  I  come  in  on  the  Providence 
train,  and  I  see  this  train  come  in  right  off,  and  I 
didn't  recollect  nothing  about  a  ticket." 

u  Where  do  you  want  to  go?  "  said  he. 


90  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN: 

"  Why,  I  want  to  go  to  York.  You  see  I'm  goin'  to 
Albany,  but  I'm  goin'  to  York  fust." 

"  You're  in  the  wrong  train,  ma'am.  This  train  goes 
to  Boston." 

"  Oh,  dear!  "  exclaimed  she,  in  a  tone  of  heart-felt 
confusion  and  distress.  "  What  be  I  goin'  to  do?" 

"  Why,  we  stop  at  Springfield  in  a  few  minutes,  and 
you  can  get  on  the  down  train  there,  and  go  right  on 
10  New  York." 

"  Well,  can  you  give  me  a  ticket,  sir?  I've  got  the 
money  all  right.  I  held  on  to't  down  to  Hartford  de- 
pott  so't  there  shouldn't  no  pick-pockets  git  it." 

"  I  guess  I  sha'n't  ask  you  to  pay  for  this  ride," 
said  he,  smiling.  "  You  can  get  a  ticket  for  New  York 
at  the  Springfield  office,  and  the  down  train  starts  in 
five  minutes,  right  alongside  t'other  side  of  the  waiting- 
room  ;  you  won't  have  any  stop  to  make  there.  Is  this 
all  your  baggage  ?  " 

"  I  expect  it  is,  sir.  John,  he  sent  my  trunk  by  ex 
press,  and  these  is  all  besides,  if  I  don't  tip  over  them 
apples  ag'in." 

Pretty  soon  the  train  did  stop,  and  the  old  lady 
bundled  out,  and  after  much  questioning  and  explana 
tion  discovered  a  ticket-office,  and  in  her  fresh  con 
fusion  asked  for  and  bought  a  ticket  to  Albanj-,  and 
leposited  herself  in  the  train  for  Boston. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  cars  began  to  move,  and 
Mrs.  Dodd  thought  her  friendly  conductor  must  have 
mistaken  the  time,  so  she  left  her  box  and  walked  for 
ward  to  an  elderly  man,  who  sat  reading  a  paper  just 
Sefore  her,  and  said :  — 

"  I  thought  these  here  cars  wa'n't  goin'  to  wait  very 
long." 


LOST  ON  A  RAILWAY.  91 

"  Time  changed,"  gruffly  replied  he. 

So  Mrs.  Dodd  sat  down  again,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
the  same  two  women  who  had  been  before  her  on  the 
Springfield  train  came  in,  and  took  the  same  seat.  Mrs. 
tDodd  was  hardly  pleased  by  this  encounter,  and  it  puz 
zled  her  somewhat  that  these  two  ladies  who  had  just 
come  up  should  be  going  down  again  ;  but  she  said  noth 
ing,  and  in  ten  minutes  the  train  was  off.  It  was  an  ex 
press  train,  and  stopped  at  but  few  places,  so  that  she 
was  well  on  her  journey  before  the  conductor  claimed  her 
ticket,  which  was  safe  at  the  bottom  of  her  pocket. 

"  I'll  get  it  in  a  minute,"  said  she,  deprecatingly,  as 
the  conductor  began  to  look  impatiently  at  the  hetero 
geneous  articles  that  one  by  one  were  being  fished  up 
out  of  her  pocket. 

"  Hurry  up,  ma'am  !  "  said  he,  at  length,  crossly.  "  I 
can't  wait  all  day  !  " 

So  urged,  the  poor  old  lady  thrust  her  hand  ener 
getically  down,  deeper  yet,  and  ran  a  sharp  pin  from 
the  pin-ball  into  her  thumb :  her  hand  was  withdrawn 
with  as  much  force  as  it  went  in,  and  her  elbow  hit  the 
basket  of  apples,  which,  for  the  third  time  that  da}*, 
went  rolling  along  the  floor.  This  last  catastrophe  was 
too  much  for  poor  Mrs.  Dodd.  She  was  tired,  and 
puzzled,  and  hungry  withal ;  she  had  had  no  dinner, 
and  had  brought  nothing  to  eat  with  her  ;  and  tears  of 
fatigue  as  well  as  vexation  dimmed  her  spectacles  as 
she  tried  to  inspect  the  wounded  thumb. 

"I'll  get  your  ticket  when  I  come  back,"  said  the 
conductor,  tired  of  waiting. 

But  the  old  lady  scarcely  heard  him  ;  she  could  not 
see  the  place  that  was  hurt  on  her  thumb,  which  she 
was  most  anxious  to  do,  and  in  her  simplicity  she  quite 


92  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

forgot  that  the  ladies  in  front  of  her  had  been  rude  in 
the  morning ;  so,  quite  regardless  of  her  apples,  she 
lifted  herself  half-way  off  the  seat,  and  leaning  forward 
thrust  her  hand  between  the  two  ladies,  and  asked,  in 
perfect  good  faith  :  — 

"  Sa}-,  ma'am  !  can  you  see  the  hole?  " 

The  lady  on  the  right  turned  round  and  looked  at 
Mrs.  Dodd  with  a  pair  of  eyes  that  expression  made 
more  insolent  even  than  nature  had  made  them,  and 
said,  in  the  sweetest  voice  of  ice  and  snow,  tingling  with 
a  fine  suggestion  of  astonishment :  — 

"What?" 

Mrs.  Dodd  never  winced,  she  was  so  absorbed  in  her 
hurt.  •'  Why,  you  see  I  sticked  a  pin  into  my  thumb, 
and  pins  are  p'isonous,  they  say.  Hester  Smith's 
daughter,  she  't  worked  to  a  pin-factor}-,  she  got  pricked 
and  didn't  take  no  pains  to  heal  up  the  wownd,  and  she 
swelled  up  awfully,  got  mortified  and  re'lly  died ;  so  I 
always  carry  Dally  in  my  pocket  to  put  on  first  jump  ; 
but  I  can't  see  real  well  in  the  cars  so  as  to  apply  it 
right.  Do  you  see  the  hole?" 

The  green  eyes  and  amber  hair  confronted  her 
again,  and  the  same  discriminating  voice  remarked,  "  I 
see  a  very  dirty  thumb." 

Now  Mrs.  Dodd's  thumb  did  not  look  clean  ;  she  had 
taken  off  her  clinging  silk  gloves  to  straighten  out  her 
bonnet  and  pick  up  her  apples,  and  the  dust  had  left 
unmistakable  traces  on  that  puckered  and  pierced 
member.  But  Mrs.  Dodd's  hobby  was  cleanliness ; 
she  was  scrupulously,  religiously  neat ;  however  old, 
and  faded,  and  stained  her  dress  might  be,  it  was 
always  faultlessly  clean  as  soap  and  water  could  make 
it ;  and  to  have  a  strange  woman  in  a  public  convey- 


LOST  ON  A   RAILWAY.  93 

ance  tell  her  that  her  thumb  was  "  dirty  "  was  not  to 
be  endured.  She  bent  her  head  slightly  to  facilitate 
the  manoeuvre,  and  directed  a  look  over  her  spectacles 
at  the  offender, —  a  look  of  that  transfixing  kind  peculiar 
to  indignant  old  ladies,  in  which  they  assume  something 
of  the  severely  virtuous  aspect  common  to  those 
dragon-flies  that  have  four  eyes,  though  they  do  not 
wear  spectacles.  But  the  green  eyes  and  amber  hair 
were  turned  away,  and  poor  Mrs.  Dodd's  Medusean 
artillery  was  wasted.  She  gave  no  further  license  to 
her  tongue  than  to  remark  quite  audibly  :  — 

"  I  wish  you  better  manners  !  " 

No  notice  was  taken  of  this  little  remark  by  the 
green  eyes.  An  icicle  could  not  have  been  more  insen 
sitive,  and  Mrs.  Dodd  had  spent  all  her  ammunition ; 
so  after  anointing  her  whole  thumb  with  her  favorite 
remedy,  and  tying  it  up  in  a  rag  extracted  from  that 
voluminous  pocket  —  which  certainly  was  clean — she 
betook  herself  to  gathering  up  the  scattered  apples, — 
a  work  of  time  and  patience,  for  they  had  rolled  fur 
ther  than  ever.  Just  as  she  was  fairly  settled  again 
the  conductor  came  back  for  her  ticket,  which  she  had 
discovered,  and  taken  the  precaution  to  pin  to  her 
shawl.  She  handed  it  up  to  him  with  a  look  of  serene 
satisfaction. 

"  "Wrong  ticket !  "  said  he. 

"  Why,  sir  !  isn't  this  the  York  train?  " 

"  No  ;  this  is  the  Boston  express,  and  your  ticket  is 
for  Albany." 

•"  Goodness  gracious !  I  haint  got  lost   again,  have 
I?     Oh,  dear  !  what  shall  I  do?  " 

"  Get  out  at  the  next  station,"  said  he. 

''Where  is't?" 


94  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

"  "Worcester,  —  fare,  a  dollar  sixty-two." 

"Aint  my  ticket  good  for  nothing?"  said  Mrs. 
Dodd,  with  a  dismayed  accent. 

"Don't  you  see,"  answered  he,  running  his  finger 
along  the  card,  "  'Good  for  this  day  and  train  only'?  " 

"  Well,  can't  I  get  back  to  anywhere  afore  it's 
dark?"  said  she. 

The  conductor  did  not  hear  her  ;  the  cars  were  stop 
ping  without  leave.  He  hurried  through  to  find  the 
trouble,  leaving  the  poor  old  woman  more  perplexed 
than  ever.  Opposite  to  her  sat  a  lady  much  less 
elaborately  dressed  than  those  before  her.  Something 
quiet  and  well-bred  marked  her  whole  aspect,  though 
her  dress  was  of  a  gray,  unnoticeable  fabric,  and  her 
thin  cloak  and  hat  of  a  delicate  transparent  material, 
dull  in  tint,  but  without  crease  or  spot.  She  looked 
across  at  Mrs.  Dodd,  and  said  in  a  low,  pleasant 
voice :  — 

"  Can  I  help  you,  ma'am?  " 

"  Oh,  dear!  I  don't  know,"  said  she.  "You  don't 
know  nothin'  about  the  trains,  do  you,  nor  what  timfe 
we  get  to  Worcester  ?  " 

"  We  ought  to  get  to  Worcester  by  half-past  three," 
said  the  lady. 

"  Where  be  we  a-stoppin'  now?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  think  something  is  wrong  ;  there 
is  no  station  here." 

Just  as  she  spoke  one  of  the  gentlemen  who  had  got 
out  —  as  gentlemen  always  do  on  such  occasions,  to 
see  for  themselves  —  came  back  and  took  his  seat  behind 
Mrs.  Dodd.  The  lady  addressed  him  in  her  sweet  and 
delicate  tones.  "  What  is  the  matter,  sir?"  said  she. 
It  was  the  same  man  who  had  given  so  laconic  an 


LOST  ON  A  RAILWAY.  95 

answer  to  the  old  lady  when  she  spoke  to  him  on  com 
ing  into  the  cars  at  Springfield  ;  but  he  was  neithei 
gruff  nor  brief  to  his  present  querist. 

"  The  locomotive  has  burst  a  flue,  ma'am,  I  believe. 
If  so,  we  shall  be  detained  some  time  on  the  track." 

Mrs.  Dodd  looked  aghast.  "Oh,  dear  me!"  sai(\ 
she;  "what  shall  I  do?" 

' '  I  think  you  will  have  to  spend  the  night  at  Worces-. 
ter,  and  go  back  in  the  morning,"  said  the  lady. 

"  Well,  if  I  go  to  York  now,  I  don't  know  where  to 
go,  for  James  he  won't  expect  me,"  was  the  piteous 
reply. 

So  the  lady — a  woman  who  deserved  the  name  — 
addressed  herself  kindly  to  quiet  the  poor  old  woman's 
apprehensions ;  and,  having  gradually  extracted  the 
history  of  Mrs.  Dodd's  wanderings,  advised  her  to  ask 
somebody  in  the  station  at  Worcester  to  show  her  a 
hotel,  and  then  to  proceed  in  the  first  morning  train  to 
Albany  —  the  kind  adviser  not  suspecting  that  New 
Albany  was  her  proper  destination. 

"  I  thank  you  kindly,"  said  Mrs.  Dodd.  "  'Taint 
everybody  that's  willin'  to  take  so  much  pains  and 
trouble  for  an  old  cretur  like  me." 

"You  are  very  welcome,"  said  the  lady.  "  I  shall 
be  old  myself  sometime  and  want  help." 

"  Well,  I'll  be  bound  you'll  get  it,"  was  the  earnest 
response  of  Mrs.  Dodd,  as  the  lad}'  returned,  smiling, 
to  her  seat  and  her  book,  while  the  pair  of  women  on 
the  seat  in  front  stared  at  her  with  undisguised  wonder, 
one  of  them  having  recognized  her,  on  entering,  as 
a  Boston  lady,  to  attain  whose  position  and  reputation 
she  would  have  given  all  her  luxuriant  amber  hair  ancj 
one  of  her  green  eyes. 


96  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

After  long  delay  the  train  moved  on,  and  at  Worces 
ter  our  old  lady  left  the  cars,  not  without  a  hearty 
shake  of  the  hand  from  her  unknown  friend,  to  whom 
she  offered  her  basket  of  apples,  begging  her  to  take 
them  all,  — an  offer  graciously  declined,  though  she  did 
take  one,  by  way  of  showing  her  appreciation  of  the 
kindness  intended. 

When  Mrs.  Dodd  found,  herself  once  more  left  to 
her  own  devices  in  a  strange  place  she  made  a  resolute 
effort  to  keep  her  wits  about  her,  not  to  get  lost  again. 
She  asked  one  hackman  after  another  "where  the 
tavern  was."  And  as  fast  as  they  discovered  she  was 
no  fare  for  them  they  turned  away  ;  and  soon  both 
men  and  women  had  left  the  station  empty,  except 
for  the  ticket-seller,  who  waited  for  another  train  and 
had  shut  his  window,  so  that  not  even  the  strenuous 
inquisitiveness  of  spectacles  could  discover  him.  In 
this  strait  was  poor  Mrs.  Dodd  left:  tired,  dusty, 
thirsty,  hungry,  and  perplexed,  when,  just  as  her  with 
ered  lip  began  to  quiver  and  her  eyes  to  fill,  a  stout, 
rosy  Irish  girl,  in  the  most  wonderful  figured  cotton 
dress,  and  a  red  shawl  over  her  head,  came  in  at  one 
door  of  the  station,  and  the  old  lady,  determined  to 
intercept  her,  planted  herself  right  before  her,  bran 
dishing  the  umbrella  feebly,  and  accosted  Bridget 
with  :  — 

"  Say  !   do  you  know  where  the  tavern  is?" 

"  Shure  there's  more  'n  one  to  this  big  place,  mem," 
said  she  ;  "  whichever  is  it  ye'll  be  afther?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  care  much,  only  I've  got  kinder  lost 
on  the  railroad,  'u  I've  got  to  stay  here  overnight,  so's 
to  go  back  in  the  mornin'  to  Albany,  and  I  want  a 
place  to  sleep,  and  get  some  vittles,  pretty  near  by." 


LOST  O.V  A  RAILWAY.  97 

"  Well,  an'  if  it  aint  a  big  hott  el  ye've  set  your 
mind  on,  here's  Mrs.  Donovan's  close  by,  an'  she 
keeps  a  fust-rate  boordin'-house,  and  it's  meself  waits, 
an'  cooks,  and  does  up  the  chamber- work ;  and  Miss 
Flynn,  she  left  the  place  last  week,  and  there  aint  a 
sowl  in  her  room,  and  I  think  ye'd  better  be  afther 
comiu'  along  wid  me,  where  ye'll  get  boord  an'  lodgin' 
av  the  best,  an'  it's  right  forninst  the  dapott." 

Mrs.  Dodd  yielded :  she  knew  nothing  else  to  do, 
and  after  a  supper  at  Mrs.  Donovan's  "  boordin'- 
house" —  which  made  her  recall  the  clean  and  savory 
food  she  was  used  to  at  her  daughter's  table  with  re 
gretful  astonishment  —  she  was  shown  into  a  dark, 
close  room,  upstairs,  where  the  fluffy  bed  and  very 
objectionable  linen  —  or  rather  cotton  —  thereof, 
shocked  Mrs.  Dodd  quite  as  much  as  it  would  have  the 
green-eyed  lady  who  insulted  her  thumb.  But  the 
extremity  of  her  fatigue  made  her  less  fastidious  prac 
tically  ;  she  went  to  bed,  and  forgot  everything  in  so 
sound  a  sleep  that  she  did  not  wake  till  half -past  seven 
of  the  brightest  possible  June  morning,  when  a  sound 
shake  from  Bridget  effected  that  desirable  event. 

"  Shure,  mem,  the  accomydashin's  goin'  by  in  a 
half  an  hour,  an'  ye've  overslep'  yerself ,  an'  the  brekfist 
is  ready." 

Mrs.  Dodd  yawned,  and  rubbed  her  eyes,  and 
yawned  again,  but  at  length  awoke  to  what  the  news 
papers  call  "  a  sense  of  her  situation,"  and  dressed 
herself  as  hastily  as  the  methodical  ways  of  an  old 
lady  would  permit ;  for  such  brushings  and  shakings 
as  gown,  shawl,  cap,  handkerchief,  and  bonnet  had  to 
go  through  were  a  work  of  time,  and  the  breakfast- 
bell  rung  impatiently  twice  before  the  dust  of  three 


D8  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

railways  was  expelled  from  every  gather  and  plait,  and 
when  at  length  she  appeared  downstairs,  much  the 
better  for  the  aforesaid  processes,  she  was  greeted  by 
Bridget  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  with  arms 
akimbo:  "An'  there's  the  accomydashin'  train  a 
whustlin'  this  blessed  minit,  an'  you  haven't  ate  j'er 
brekfist,  as  shure's  I'm  Bridget  Flanigin  ! " 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Mrs.  Dodd,  "  if  I  aiut  the  uii- 
luckiest  woman  !  Can't  I  get  over  to  't,  Bridget? " 

"  Shure  ye  can't  aven  put  on  yer  bonnet  quick 
enough,  for  it's  afther  goin'  out  as  quick  as  iver  it 
comes  in  ! " 

"Oh,  what  shall  I  do!"  exclaimed  the  old  lady, 
who  felt  as  one  does  when,  after  waking  out  of  one 
nightmare,  breathless  and  oppressed,  is  felt  the  creep 
ing,  curdling  horror  of  another,  and,  conscious  of  its 
presence,  cannot  stir  to  escape. 

"  Shure,  whativer  else  ye'll  do,  ye'd  betther  ate  yer 
brekfist.  Hev'n't  I  been  an'  br'iled  a  beautf  ul  salt  fish 
meself  for  that  same,  wid  chopped  petatys,  an'  fine 
hot  caffee?" 

Mrs.  Dodd  followed  her  to  the  dining-room,  which 
was  deserted  even  by  Mrs.  Donovan ;  and  if  cold  or 
tepid  salt  mackerel,  greasy  potatoes,  coffee  that  never 
grew  on  any  Javan  or  Arabian  soil,  —  being  uublush- 
ingly  burned  beans,  —  and  stale  baker's  bread  could 
have  tempted  her  appetite,  our  old  lady  would  have 
scarcely  eaten  with  less  apparent  notice  of  her  food 
than  now.  She  did  not  know  what  to  do  till  at  last 
a  bright  thought  visited  her,  and  she  turned  to  Bridget, 
who  sat  at  ease  in  a  chair  behind  her,  heaving  Irish 
sighs,  and  wiping  her  hot  face  with  an  apron  that  was 
far  from  clean,  sa3Ting  :  — 


LOST  ON  A   RAILWAY.  99 

"  Aint  there  no  more  trains  besides  this,  Bridget?" 

"  Shure  an'  there  is.  'Taint  a  twopenny  railroad 
that  runs  twice't  an'  then  gives  over.  It's  sivin  or  tin 
trains  a  day  they  do  be  havin',  I  don't  remimber 
which." 

"  Well,  then,  I  can  go  in  the  next  one,  can't  I? 
When  does  it  go  ?  " 

"  There's  the  express  comes  by  at  tin  o'clock,  mem  ; 
but  I  undtherstood  3*6  to  say  ye  wanted  the  first  train, 
and  that's  the  accomydashin  that's  agoin'  out  beyant 
now." 

"  Then  I'll  go  by  express.  I'll  put  on  my  bunnit 
right  away,  and  take  my  things,  and  go  and  set  in  the 
depott  till  it  comes  along,  so  't  I'll  be  sure  next  time." 

"  And  I'll  come  afther  I  get  the  dishes  done,  about 
tin  o'clock,  an'  see  ye  safe  in,"  said  Bridget,  muttering 
as  she  retreated,  "  she's  a  rale  plisant  otild  lady,  and  as 
like  to  me  Aunt  Honour  Maguire  —  the  heavens  be  her 
bed  this  day !  —  as  one  pay  is  like  to  another  in  the 
pod ;  and  it's  more  nor  likely  she'll  make  me  the  com- 
plimint  of  a  quarther  for  bein'  attintive  !  " 

Mrs.  Dodd  paid  for  her  board  at  the  rate  of  a  great 
hotel,  and  gladly  left  Mrs.  Donovan  smiling  from  under 
her  be-ribboned  cap  at  the  meek  inexperience  of  the 
old  lady.  After  a  few  inquiries  she  found  her  way  to 
the  station,  and  seated  herself  in  the  gentlemen's  wait 
ing-room,  as  if  the  spirit  of  all  blunders  possessed  her ! 
She  was  somewhat  chagrined  at  not  finding  a  rocking- 
chair,  but  compromised  affairs  by  sitting  in  one  com 
mon  one,  with  her  feet  on  the  rujigs  of  another,  that 
held  her  box,  basket,  and  umbrella.  Thus  perched  she 
waited  quietly  till  the  hour  for  the  train  should  come. 
As  the  time  drew  near,  and  only  men  began  to  come  in, 


100  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

one  after  another,  she  wondered  mightily  what  was  the 
reason  that  no  women  were  going,  and  why  all  the  men 
looked  at  her  so.  Presently  two  coarse-looking  youths 
entered,  tolerably  well-dressed  except  in  the  article  of 
vests,  which  were  of  the  showiest  character,  — brilliant 
pink  and  blue  checked  Marseilles,  overhung  with  the 
gaudiest  and  most  elaborate  chains,  —  while  Mosaic 
studs,  rings  big  enough  for  the  finger  of  Gog  or  Magog, 
and  blue  neck-ties  stamped  them  as  undoubted 
"  swells." 

'•  Hullo ! "  said  the  reddest  of  them,  as  his  eye 
caught  Mrs.  Dodd's  quaint  figure.  "  Jim  !  I  say,  look 
there  !  " 

Jim  turned  round,  struck  an  attitude,  and  whistled  ; 
while  Joe  quoted  audibly,  "  Big  box,  little  box,  band 
box,  bundle." 

Mrs.  Dodd  couldn't  hear  them,  or  she  might  perhaps 
have  taken  herself  out  of  the  way  of  the  next  manoeuvre, 
which  was,  after  buying  their  tickets,  to  seat  themselves 
one  on  each  side  of  her,  and  begin  a  conversation. 

"  Good-morning,  ma'am ! "  said  Joe,  which  was 
reciprocated  by  Mrs.  Dodd.  "  Got  }'our  ticket, 
ma'am?" 

"Well,  no,  I  hevn't.  I  calculate  to  get  it  in  the 
cars,  so's  I  can't  make  no  mistakes  no  more.  Can  I 
get  it  way  through  to  Albany,  sir?" 

"  Lord,  yes !  "  answered  Jim.  "  They  ticket 
through  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  overland  to 
China,  on  this  track." 

"  Dew  tell !  "  saidJhe  old  lady.  "  I  thought  Chiney 
was  acrost  the  water." 

"•  Well,  the}7've  bridged  it  over  on  the  telegraph 
cable,"  said  Joe,  graveby. 


LOST  OX  A   RAILWAY.  101 

Mrs.  Dodd  looked  at  him  over  her  spectacles,  not 
indignantly,  but  inquiringly. 

"  Dew  tell !  "  said  she.  "  I  didn't  know  as  they 
could !  " 

"  Why,"  said  Jim,  "  that  feller  next  you,  ma'am, 
he  ticketed  through  to  Japan,  and  shot  buffaloes  flying 
for  seven  hundred  and  forty  miles  of  the  way  —  light 
ning  speed." 

"  Why,  buffaloes  don't  fly  !  "  said  Mrs.  Dodd,  indig 
nantly. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  Joe  ;  "  but  I  did,  after  the  engine  : 
it's  the  same  principle.  I  used  to  aim  a  mile  ahead, 
and  hit  every  time." 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  the  old  lady,  quite  reassured  by 
Joe's  grave  air.  "  Be  they  quite  large  critters?" 

"Oh,  immense!"  said  Jim;  "they  use  their  horns 
for  church-steeples  out  in  Kansas,  and  make  a  bell- 
rope  of  the  tail." 

Mrs.  Dodd  began  to  look  dubious,  and  just  then 
Joe's  e}~e  lit  on  a  number  of  an  agricultural  paper  lying 
on  the  floor,  that  some  one  had  dropped,  where  were 
depicted  certain  diagrams  illustrating  the  shape  that  a 
well-fed  ox  should  be,  inclosing  him  in  a  parallelogram 
except  his  head  and  legs ;  he  availed  himself  of  the  ac 
cident  directly. 

"Well,  that  does  sound  rather  largish,"  said  he; 
"  but  we  shall  get  a  look  at  'em  in  this  part  of  the 
country  before  long.  They're  goin'  to  be  imported." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  a  man  drive  a  herd  of  'em  into 
New  York  !  "  said  Jim,  affecting  a  great  scorn  for  the 
idea. 

"  Oh,  they're  going  to  be  boxed  up  !  "  returned  Joe. 
"  Look  here,  ma'am  :  here's  a  description  of  thevway, 


102  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

in  the  last  '  Syracuse  Harrow.'     You  see  how  it's  to  be 
done  !  " 

"What!"  said  the  pitiful  old  lady,  eyiug  the  dia 
gram,  that  presented  a  view  of  the  ox's  back, — "  a-settin' 
up  on  end !  Why,  it  must  hurt  their  tails  dreadfully. 
Poor  creturs  !  I  should  think  they'd  beller  all  the  wa}T." 

This  was  too  much  for  Jim  and  Joe  ;  the}7  disappeared 
in  a  roar  of  laughter,  leaving  the  mortified  and  aston 
ished  Mrs.  Dodd  to  her  own  reflections.  Presently  the 
train  came  up,  and  the  old  lady  betook  herself  to  the 
cars,  being  seized  on  the  way  by  Bridget,  who  put  her 
into  a  seat,  and  bade  her  an  affectionate  good-by,  lin 
gering  in  hope  of  some  more  tangible  souvenir,  but 
lingering  in  vain.  Mrs.  Dodd  was  "  of  prudent 
mind,"  and  she  thought  the  two  dollars  she  had  paid 
Mrs.  Donovan  quite  enough,  to  say  the  least,  for  her 
scanty  accommodations  ;  so  she  only  said,  "  Good-by, 
Bridget ;  I  wish  you  well."  Just  then  the  bell  rung. 

"  Ye  stingy  ould  nagur !  "  sputtered  the  indignant 
serving-maid  ;  "  the  divil's  own  luck  go  wid  }*e  !  " 

"  All  aboard  !  "  sung  out  the  conductor,  and  Bridget 
beat  a  hasty  retreat  without  her  "  complimint,"  whereon 
Mrs.  Dodd  uttered  but  one  reflection,  in  soliloquy, 
Which  we  preserve  for  its  point  and  pith  :  — 

"  She's  real  Irish,  —  sweet  one  minute  and  sassy  the 
next." 

The  cars  had  passed  Springfield,  and  were  well  on 
their  way  toward  Albany.  Mrs.  Dodd  had  procured 
the  right  ticket  this  time,  and  sat  peacefully  nibbling 
a  great  piece  of  cake  she  had  bought  of  a  boy ;  for 
nothing  could  have  induced  her  to  leave  her  seat  a 
moment  till  she  arrived  at  Albany,  —  hardly  the  neces 
sity  of  the  ferry,  —  when  suddenly  it  occurred  to  her 


LOST  ON  A  RAILWAY.  103 

she  could  get  away  from  the  troublesome  sunshine  in 
her  face  by  taking  the  other  end  of  the  seat.  To  do  so, 
bandbox,  umbrella,  and  apple-basket  must  change 
places,  and  of  course  she  knocked  down  the  apples, 
and  was  obliged  to  grope  for  them  here  and  there  as 
they  had  rolled.  Just  before  her  sat  a  young  man, 
with  a  deep  weed  on  his  hat,  which  had  given  rise  to 
various  sympathetic  conjectures  in  the  old  lady's  mind. 
He  had  taken  that  seat  at  Westfield,  and  remained  ap 
parently  absorbed  in  his  papers  ever  since.  He  was 
not  handsome,  but  there  was  something  serious  and 
sweet  about  his  dark  face,  and  his  dress  was  quiet  and 
serviceable.  Just  as  Mrs.  Dodd  stooped  b}'  his  seat  to 
look  for  one  of  the  unfortunate  russets,  he  perceived 
her  errand,  and  offered  to  help  her  so  kindly  that  the 
weary  old  lady  looked  up  at  him  with  a  glow  of  satis 
faction. 

"  Well,  I  wish  you  would,"  said  she.  "  Them  apples 
do  pester  me  dreadfully  ;  they've  kep'  a-tumblin'  down 
ever  since  I  come  away  from  home." 

"  Let  me  tie  a  paper  over  the  basket,"  said  he, 
"and  then  you  will  have  no  more  trouble;"  and  he 
proceeded  to  tie  a  bit  of  his  newspaper  over  the  re-col 
lected  russets. 

"I  declare  for't,"  said  she,  "  it's  a  great  thing  to 
have  one's  faculties  handy !  I  don't  see  why  I  never 
thought  of  that  myself." 

The  gentleman  smiled,  and,  arranging  the  old  lady's 
possessions,  offered  her  a  pictorial  paper,  and  for  the 
next  hour  she  was  happy  ;  but  the  paper  being  finished 
she  began  to  think  with  apprehension  of  her  search 
through  Albany  after  Jehiel.  She  returned  the  paper 
with  thanks,  and  proceeded  —  encouraged  by  the  smile 


104  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

with  which  it  was  acknowledged  —  to  inquire  of  him  as 
follows :  — 

"  You  haven't  never  been  to  Albany,  have  you,  sir?  " 

He    smiled   again,  at  the    intensely  Yankee   idiom. 

"  Oh,  yes,  ma'am  ;  a  great  many  times." 

"  Well,  do  you  know  the  Eeverend  Jehiel  Dodd 
there  ?  " 

"  No  ;  there  is  no  settled  clergyman  of  that  name  in 
Albany." 

"  Why,  yes,  there  is,  sure.  He's  my  son  ;  he's  set 
tled  in  the  Pilgrim  Church,  I  b'lieve  'tis  they  call  it." 

"  But  there  is  no  such  church  in  Alban}\" 

Several  new  wrinkles  gathered  on  the  wistful,  troubled 
face  that  looked  into  his,  and  the  wonted  exclamation 
came  to  her  lips  :  — 

"Dear  me!  what  shall  I  do?  Well,  do  you  know 
one  thing,  —  is  Albany^  in  Indianny  or  York?  " 

"  The  Albany  we  are  going  to  is  in  New  York  State. 
There  is  a  New  Albany  in  Indiana." 

"  Well,  that  is  it,  I  expect;  but  everybody  told  me 
it  was  in  York.  And  here  I  am  a-goin'  all  wrong ! 
Oh,  dear  me,  sus  ! " 

This  was  the  extreme  of  Mrs.  Dodd's  ejaculations ; 
language  reached  its  limits  with  her  in  that  climax  of 
phraseology ;  and  the  hot,  slow  tears  began  to  creep 
out  of  her  poor  old  eyes.  Something  about  her  look 
touched  her  listener's  heart  to  the  quick.  The  weed  on 
his  hat  was  not  the  token  of  a  lost  love,  or  wife,  or 
child  ;  it  signified  to  him  a  loss  never  to  be  amended,  — 
a  dead  mother,  who  also  had  been  gray-haired,  wrinkled, 
faded  out  of  her  young  bloom,  but  lovely  with  the  un 
dying  beauty  of  a  lovely  soul  that  transfigured  her  for 
ever,  and  left  its  fair  ghost  behind  in  the  hearts  and  the 


LOST  ON  A  RAILWAY.  105 

memories  of  all  who  knew  her.  Her  son,  remembering 
her,  soothed  poor  old  Mrs.  Dodd  into  quiet,  drew  from 
her  all  her  story,  and,  after  thinking  it  over,  decided 
that  it  was  not  best  for  her  to  go  to  New  York,  but  to 
keep  right  on  to  Cleveland,  and  from  there,  by  various 
railways,  to  Indianapolis  and  New  Albany. 

"  But  I  don't  believe  I've  got  money  enough,"  said 
she.  "  It  must  take  quite  a  spell  o'  travellin'  to  get  out 
there  ;  and  John  Greeue,  that's  my  son-in-law  down  to 
Moosop  "  — 

"  John  Greene  !  Why,  I  know  him  quite  well.  I've 
bought  wool  of  him  many  a  time,"  said  the  young  man, 
speaking  with  visible  pleasure,  as  everybody  who  knew 
John  Greene  did  speak  of  him. 

"  Why,  dew  tell !  I  want  to  know  if  you  know  our 
John  !  Well,  now,  I  feel  kind  o'  familiar,  I  declare ! 
Well,  I  was  goin'  on  to  say,  he  said't  James,  his  brother, 
when  I  was  goin'  down  to  York,  would  hand  over  the 
money  for  my  passage  to  whoever  should  take  me  along, 
so't  I  shouldn't  have  no  trouble  ;  and  I  brought  along 
ten  dollars  for  little  things,  and  for  to  pay  my  passage 
from  Hartford  to  York,  and  I  haint  got  more'n  three 
of  it  left,  I've  been  a-wanderin'  round  so."  Here  the 
old  lady's  lip  began  to  quiver. 

"  Well,  you're  all  right  now  !  "  said  he,  soothingly. 
"  I'm  going  on  out  West,  and  I've  got  money  enough 
for  both  of  us.  I  shall  go  as  far  as  Indianapolis,  and 
there  I'll  put  you  in  a  train  straight  for  New  Albany." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  how  to  be  thankful  enough!" 
said  she.  "  I'm  greatly  obleeged  ;  and  3'ou'll  be  sure 
to  get  your  money  —  though  that's  the  least  part 
on't." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I'll  get  that  out  of  Mr.  Greene  on  our 


106  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

next  wool  bargain.  He'll  trust  Frank  Scarborough's 
word  for  the  debt,  I'll  be  bound." 

"  I  guess  he'd  trust  a  look  out  o'  them  eyes  o'  yourn 
as  quick,"  said  the  old  lady,  thinking  aloud. 

Mr.  Scarborough  turned  her  thoughts  by  saying, 
"  We'll  telegraph  from  Albany  to  Moosop  Station  that 
you're  all  safe  with  me." 

"Oh,  yes,  sir;  and  you  needn't  never  go  to  John 
for  wool  after  this  without  makin'  it  your  home  while 
you  stay.  They'll  always  befriend  anybody  that  be 
friends  mother." 

They  arrived  at  Albany  very  soon  after  this  agree 
ment  ;  and,  deciding  to  take  a  night  train  on,  Mr. 
Scarborough  arranged  his  shawl  carefully  for  the  old 
lady's  rest,  and  cared  for  her  as  if  he  had  indeed  been 
her  son,  —  better,  perhaps;  for  Mr.  Scarborough  was 
that  rarest  of  modern  curiosities  —  a  gentleman ! 

Mrs.  Dodd's  troubles  were  all  ended  now,  and  she 
ceases  to  be  interesting.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  she  had 
a  weary  yet  a  very  pleasant  journey  to  Indianapolis, 
entertaining  her  friend  all  the  way  with  her  family  his 
tories,  and  praises  of  a  little  girl,  named  Lizz}',  be 
longing  to  Jehiel,  —  "The  prettiest  little  cretur  you 
ever  see ! " 

They  parted  with  a  promise  on  Frank  Scarborough's 
part  to  surely  visit  New  Albany  on  his  return  home  in 
a  month  or  two ;  and  August  was  just  fading  awa}r 
when  he  rung  the  bell  of  the  Rev.  Jehiel  Dodd's  door, 
in  the  quietest  street  of  New  Albany,  —  a  door  which 
was  opened  to  him  by  Lizzy  herself,  —  a  young  lady, 
instead  of  the  pretty  little  girl  her  grandmother  had 
painted.  Pretty  she  was,  nevertheless,  with  a  true 
Saxon  complexion  of  milk  and  roses ;  sweet,  honest 


LOST  ON  A   RAILWAY.  107 

blue  eyes,  still  innocent  and  childish  ;  waves  on  waves 
of  braided  golden  hair,  and  the  kind,  sweet  beauty  of 
a  heart  as  true  and  gentle  as  her  grandmother's. 

More  than  once  on  his  Western  tours  did  Mr.  Frank 
Scarborough  find  his  way  to  New  Albany  ;  once,  just 
in  time  to  say  good-by  to  his  travelling  companion,  now 
bound  on  a  longer  journey,  yet  fearing  not  to  be  lost, 
though  she  went  alone.  The  old  lady  drew  that  grave, 
yet  tender,  face  down  to  hers,  and  kissed  him  for  good- 
by,  even  as  his  mother  had. 

"  The  Lord  bless  you  !  "  whispered  she.  "  He  will. 
He  is  faithful ! " 

Frank  Scarborough  never  saw  her  again ;  but  a  year 
after  he  came  back  to  New  Albany,  and,  with  much 
unwillingness  on  the  Rev.  Jehiel  Dodd's  part,  that  ven 
erable  man  nevertheless  performed  a  certain  ceremony 
that  gave  his  Lizzy  over  into  the  young  man's  hands 
for  life ;  and  I  am  credibly  informed  that  old  Mrs. 
Dodd's  opinion  of  Mr.  Scarborough  is  fully  indorsed  by 
Lizzy,  who  had  heard  many  and  many  a  time  that  he 
was  "  the  best  of  all  the  Lord's  creturs,  ef  he  was  a 
man  !  " 


108  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 


DOCTOR  PARKER'S   PATTY. 


"PATTY!  Patty!"  called  the  doctor's  cheery  voice 
from  the  little  ell  he  used  as  an  office,  "  tell  Eph  to 
harness  up  old  Whitey." 

"Into  the  'chay'or  the  sulky,  father?"  answered 
a  clear  note  from  the  kitchen. 

"The  '  chay.'  I've  got  to  go  down  to  Dog's  Misery. 
Friend  Abraham  Best  has  broken  his  leg." 

Patty  did  her  errand,  and  then  tripping  to  the  open 
window  of  the  ell,  which  stood  at  right  angles  with 
the  kitchen,  put  her  pretty  head  in,  and  asked :  — 

"  Can  I  go  with  you,  father?  " 

The  doctor  nodded  assent ;  he  was  very  busy  sort 
ing  splints,  and  one  long  one  athwart  his  big  mouth  pre 
vented  his  speaking.  Doctor  Billious  Parker,  though 
lie  bore  so  ominous  and  medical  a  name,  was  a  kind, 
friendly,  jolly  soul,  carrying  a  big  heart  in  a  big  body. 
His  coarse,  humorous  face,  his  always  cheerful  smile, 
hearty  laugh,  and  warm,  strong  hand-grip,  did  his 
patients  quite  as  much  good  as  medicine  ;  and  he  had 
plenty  of  patients. 

Ths  profession  generally  did  not  fraternize  with 
him.  He  did  not  walk  just  as  the  Medical  Associa 
tion  would  have  him.  He  had  cast  a  certain  doubt 
on  the  free  use  of  calomel,  and  was  known  to  distrust 
opium ;  and  in  those  days  the  sheet-anchors  of  the 


DOCTOR  PARKER'S  PATTY.  109 

profession  were  those  of  Scott's  farrier  friend,  — "joost 
twa  simples :  laudamy  and  calamy ; "  and  if  they  did 
not,  as  in  his  case,  "  mak'  up  for  Flodden,"  they  cer 
tainly  slew  their  thousands,  and  to  the  accompaniment 
of  the  jawbones  of  more  than  one  ass. 

Doctor  Parker,  you  see,  was  somewhat  in  advance 
of  his  age,  and  no  profession  likes  a  member  to  step 
out  of  its  ranks.  But  he  did  not  care  about  that;  he 
was  a  man  of  independence  in  weight}'  matters,  having 
worldly  wisdom  enough  to  conform  in  little  things,  or 
keep  his  opinions  to  himself  about  them,  that  he  might 
the  more  freely  use  his  liberty  when  it  was  truly  need 
ful. 

If  the  medical  tribes  in  and  about  Tenterden  had 
been  aware  of  the  bread  pills,  burnt  sugar  and  water 
draughts,  and  baths  medicated  with  a  powder  com 
posed  of  rye  flour  and  common  salt,  which  this  man 
administered  under  long  Latin  names,  they  would 
have  put  him  in  the  pillory,  which  still  stood  on  Ten 
terden  green,  or  ducked  him  in  the  frog-pond.  They 
wanted  to  now,  he  had  cured  so  many  patients ;  but 
there  was  no  legal  chance  to  do  so,  therefore  he  still 
went  on  his  way  rejoicing. 

Another  thing  was  against  him :  he  was  not  orthodox, 
people  suspected.  To  be  sure,  a  doctor  could  not  go 
to  church  regularly ;  the  exigencies  of  the  profession 
forbid  this,  particularly  with  so  popular  a  physician  ; 
but  then  when  he  did  go  he  almost  always  fell  asleep 
before  Father  Marsh  got  to  "  tenthly,  beloved  ;  "  and 
once,  — I  shudder  to  reveal  it,  —  once  he  gave  forth  a 
horrid  snore,  and  when  it  woke  him  with  its  long  re 
verberations  he  was  seen  to  smile,  and  Patty  tittered 
audibly.  Moreover,  had  he  not  forbidden  Hannah 


110      .        THE  SPHINXES  CHILDREN: 

Marsh  to  attend  meeting  all  one  winter?  If  she  did 
have  a  weak  spine  and  a  cough,  and  the  straight  pew- 
backs  and  unwarmed  edifice  were  bad  for  her,  was  it 
not  still  worse  for  her  soul  to  absent  herself  from  the 
courts  of  the  tabernacle? 

When  Deacon  Green  solemnly  remonstrated  with  the 
doctor  on  this  ground  he  was  horrified  to  hear  him 
swear.  If  he  had  been  a  member  Mr.  Green  would  have 
dealt  with  him  summarily  ;  but  the  good  man  never  had 
joined  any  church,  and  escaped  censure  from  the  meet 
ing  on  that  account.  No  wonder  Tenterden  people 
thought  he  was  not  orthodox  !  But,  for  all  that,  they 
continued  to  employ  him.  Mrs.  Parker  was  pious 
enough  for  both.  I  say  pious,  advisedly  ;  for  I  do  not 
consider  that  she  was  religious.  Of  the  two  I  should 
say  the  doctor  had  more  religion. 

"  Sabriny  "  Gunn  had  been  a  patient  of  his  when  he 
first  came  to  Tenterden  ;  and  after  a  year  of  visiting 
and  prescribing,  everybody  was  surprised  at  their  sud 
den  marriage  ;  perhaps  nobody  more  so  than  the  bride 
groom.  Miss  Gunn  was  not  pretty,  or  healthy,  or  even 
graceful ;  she  had  thick,  dull,  light  hair ;  gray  eyes 
that  really  were  green,  but  passed  for  gray,  and  had  a 
queer  way  of  looking  steel-blue  in  certain  lights,  —  eyes 
as  cold  and  hard  as  bits  of  mountain  crystal,  but  ca 
pable  of  flashing  with  fierce  passion.  A  pale  skin, 
strong  jaw,  plausible  mouth,  and  cruel  white  teeth, 
completed  this  feline  type.  She  was  "  smart  as  a 
steel-trap,"  besides.  Some  people  loved  —  no,  not  loved 
her — were  under  her  dominion,  soul  and  body  ;  others 
hated  her.  She  was  of  that  German  proverb's  class  : 
"  Strass-engel  Haus-teufel."  Professedly  a  saint  of  the 
highest  style,  she  made  religion  so  distasteful  in  her 


DOCTOR   PARKER'S  PATTY.  Ill 

daily  life  that  neither  her  husband  nor  her  children  be 
lieved  in  her,  and  all  were  repelled  from  the  real  paths 
of  pleasantness  because  her  pretence  and  arrogance 
made  them  seem  so  unpleasant.  Of  this  she  also  made 
outside  capital,  openly  praying  in  meetings  for  her 
"unconverted  husband,"  to  his  deep  disgust;  and 
when  Patty,  under  the  wonderful  preaching  of  George 
Whitefield,  was  converted,  and  joined  the  church  at  the 
early  age  of  sixteen,  it  only  gave  her  mother  a  new 
lever  of  torture. 

Thenceforward  Patty  was  watched,  mouse-fashion, 
by  an  untiring  cat.  All  the  innocent  diversions  of 
youth  were  denied  her,  as  being  worldly  snares. 
Books  were  forbidden,  few  as  they  were.  "  Boston's 
Fourfold  State,"  "  Taylor's  Holy  Living,"  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  —  these  were  allowed;  but  "Clarissa," 
"  Pamela,"  "  Sir  Charles  Grandison,"  a  torn  copy  of 
"  Amadis  of  Gaul,"  and  sundry  remnants  of  still  older 
and  more  high-flown  stories  were  burned  up  in  the 
kitchen  fire  with  summary  judgment.  It  was  just  as 
well  for  Patty  ;  for  if  Mrs.  Parker  had  stolen  a  march 
upon  the  doctor  as  regarded  matrimony,  she  was  there 
after  thoroughly  understood  by  him,  and  made  to 
understand  that  he  was  master  whenever  he  saw  fit  to 
assert  it,  and  always  master  of  his  own  especial 
domain,  the  office.  So  there  Patty  read  at  will  the 
works  of  William  Shakespeare,  the  elaborate  allegories 
of  Spenser,  and  a  full  edition  of  English  Classics,  — 
as  certain  British  publishers  chose  to  call  a  set  of  those 
old  papers,  the  "  Spectator,"  the  "  Tattler,"  the 
"  Rambler,  and  sundry  lesser  sparks  from  the  era  of 
Addison.  Steele,  and  Sterne. 

Odd  reading  enough  for  a  young  girl ;  but  in  those 


112  THE  SPHINX'S    CHILDREN. 

days  the  modern  novel  w;is  unknown,  and  Patty  at 
least  read  pure  and  lucid  English,  —  which  is  more 
than  can  be  said  of  girls  to-day. 

By  the  time  the  "chay"  came  round  Patty  was 
ready,  and  a  very  pretty  Patty  she  was,  in  a  skirt 
of  pink  calimanco,  a  white  dimity  short- gown,  a 
flat  of  straw  she  had  braided  and  sewn  herself,  from 
the  bright  fine  stems  of  Leghorn  grass,  tied  down  over 
her  abundant  and  riotous  curls,  a  black  silk  tippet 
upon  her  shapely  shoulders,  and  black  mitts  on  her 
little  brown  hands.  But,  though  dress  adorned  her, 
as  it  does  any  woman,  she  more  than  returned  the  com 
pliment  ;  for  even  in  her  homespun  gown  tucked  up 
over  a  stuff  petticoat  she  was  still  beautiful.  She  in 
herited  her  sturdy  constitution  and  splendid  coloring 
from  her  father's  family,  as  well  as  the  regular,  delicate 
features  which  her  rich  brunette  complexion  and  laugh 
ing  dark  eyes  illuminated.  Not  slight  nor  slender,  but 
well  filled  out,  dimpled  at  wrist  and  elbow  as  well  as  in 
cheek  and  chin,  as  graceful  as  unconscious  nature  and 
a  total  absence  of  stays  and  whalebone  (for  which  she 
had  the  doctor  to  thank)  could  make  her,  Patty  Parker 
was  about  as  charming  a  bit  of  flesh  and  blood  as  one 
could  see  on  a  summer's  day  ;  and  it  was  generally 
summer  where  she  was,  for  she  had  a  sweet,  sunny 
temper,  with  enough  will  to  strengthen  the  cheeriness, 
and  as  much  energy  and  common-sense  as  steadied  her 
for  the  conflicts  that  we  all  share,  sooner  or  later. 

When  I  say  her  temper  was  sweet  I  do  not  mean 
that  she  never  lost  it ;  for  there  were  times  when  Miss 
Patty  could  thunder  and  lighten  like  any  other  summer 
squall ;  but  she  always  cleared  off  thoroughly  and 
smiling,  as  brief  tempests  are  apt  to.  Dr.  Parker 


DOCTOR   PARKER'S  PATTY.  113 

said  the  explosion  did  her  good,  aerated  her  moral 
nature,  and  restored  the  disturbed  equilibrium.  He 
was  of  good  old  Fuller's  opinion:  "Anger  is  one  of 
the  sinews  of  the  soul.  He  that  wants  it  hath  a 
maimed  mind." 

How  Patty  would  endure  real  grief  and  thwarting 
remained  to  be  seen.  Her  mother  was  steadily  pre 
paring  her  for  trouble  by  the  daily  fret  that  took  out 
much  sweetness  from  the  girl's  life,  and  the  rigid  ob 
servances  that  tried  hard  to  misinterpret  both  heaven 
and  earth  for  this  young  soul  that  knew  neither.  But 
here  the  doctor's  counteractive  force  came  in.  He 
took  his  daughter  with  him  on  his  daily  rounds  when 
ever  the  "  housewif e-skep  "  could  spare  her,  and  some 
times  when  it  could  not.  He  opened  her  eyes  to  all 
the  healing  and  delighting  forces  of  nature.  There 
was  not  a  flower  in  Wyannis  County  unknown  to 
Patty,  a  bird  whose  song  she  could  not  recognize  be 
fore  she  saw  its  plumage,  or  a  tree  she  could  not  name 
from  its  bark,  though  it  were  already  cut  and  chopped 
and  laid  up  in  the  wood-pile.  All  the  simples  of  the 
neighborhood  and  their  properties  were  familiar  to  her. 
She  could  tell  you  what  black  cohosh,  and  blue  cohosh, 
and  meadow  rue,  and  mullein,  and  elecampane,  and 
prince's  piney,  hardback,  and  hemlock,  were  good  for. 
Had  not  she  gathered  them  all,  and  fairly  tapestried 
the  great  garret  with  their  odorous  and  inodorous 
sheaves?  For  the  doctor  was  much  given  to  use 
these  things  when  he  used  any  medicine  ;  and  it  was 
considered  a  feather  in  his  cap  that  he  never  used  any 
"mineral  doses."  How  the  doctor  laughed  when 
Patty  told  him  of  this  boast,  made  by  one  of  his 
patients  ! 


114  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

"I  like  that,  Patty,"  he  said.  "That's  vox  populi 
with  a  vengeance.  '  Mineral  closes,'  quotha  !  A  few 
boluses  of  mandrake  root,  a  little  drink  of  nightshade 
tea,  or  a  pinch  of  dried  stink- weed,  or  St.  Ignatius's 
bean,  would  change  their  tune,  I  reckon  !  I'd  engage  to 
kill  more  men  to-day,  twice  over,  with  messes  out  of 
the  swamp  down  at  Dog's  Misery,  than  anything  in  all 
the  minerals  in  the  county  !  " 

And  with  this  the  doctor  gave  a  smart  lash  to  Old 
Whitey  that  was  really  meant  for  the  ignorance  of  his 
admiring  patients. 

But  to-day  the  doctor  was  bent  on  a  purely  surgical 
errand ;  and  he  jogged  quietly  along  with  Patty  by  his 
side,  as  congruous  companions  to  behold  as  a  damask 
rose  and  a  lobster,  but  a  pair  of  dear  friends  for  all 
that ;  and  in  due  time  drew  up  at  Abraham  Best's 
farm-house  in  the  district,  called  "  Dog's  Miseiy,"  —  a 
name  given  it  in  old  times  when  all  the  intervale  had 
been  a  swamp  of  tangled  thicket  and  boggy  ground, 
into  which  the  dogs  of  the  first  settlers  were  always 
straying  after  wild  animals,  and  between  the  mire  and 
the  beasts  rarely  coming  back.  The  land  had  long 
been  drained  and  reclaimed,  except  a  few  acres  that 
lay  too  low,  and  were  too  full  of  springs  to  repay  so 
much  expense  and  trouble  as  their  drainage  would  have 
cost ;  and  the  Best  farm  stood  just  at  the  head  of  the 
little  valley  where  the  hills  converged. 

Abraham  Best  was  the  descendant  of  a  persecuted 
remnant  of  Quakers,  driven  into  the  wilderness  years 
ago  for  their  faith's  sake,  and  clinging  for  that  very 
reason  still  closer  to  the  creed  that  had  exiled  them 
from  their  earlier  homes. 

There  were   twenty  or  thirty  families   scattered   in 


DOCTOR  PARKER'S  PATTY.  115 

and  about  Tenterden,  who  had  a  little  meeting-house  at 
one  end  of  the  village,  and  adhered  in  their  walk  and 
conversation  to  the  most  rigid  tenets  of  the  sect. 
Abraham  Best  was  grim  as  Giant  Despair  in  his  outer 
aspect.  He  was  a  preacher,  and  in  early  life  had  mar 
ried  a  beautiful  English  girl  converted  under  his  own 
exhortations,  and  who  had  herself  become  a  preacher 
too.  Long  ago  Elizabeth  Best's  beauty  had  gone  from 
her  thin  face  and  spare  form ;  the  rich  golden  hair, 
whose  waves  had  been  tucked  away  under  a  Quaker 
cap,  was  gray  and  sparse  now ;  the  milk  and  roses  of 
her  complexion  had  faded  to  true  American  sallowness, 
and  the  scarlet  lips  grown  pallid  and  set ;  but  her  dark 
blue  eyes  were  still  beautiful  and  tender,  and  a  certain 
divine  patience  and  sweet  serenit}'  seemed  to  glorify 
those  wan  tints  and  sharpened  outlines  with  a  beauty 
that  was  truly  not  of  this  world. 

The  house  where  they  lived  was  bare  of  all  external 
charm,  though  thrift,  neatness,  and  order  made  it 
thoroughly  respectable.  If  no  roses  or  lilies  lit  up  its 
brown  walls,  or  clambering  honeysuckles  floriated  its 
angles,  there  were  no  scattered  chips,  broken  wagons, 
or  neglected  implements  in  sight ;  and  the  inside  of  the 
house  was  as  exquisitely  neat  as  it  was  formal  and 
unlovely. 

Abraham  Best  lay  on  the  bed,  quite  silent,  though 
he  had  bitten  his  lips  till  they  bled,  in  stern  determina 
tion  to  suffer  without  a  murmur.  His  wife  was  in  the 
kitchen  preparing  dinner,  but  a  young  man  stood  by 
his  father's  side,  who  was  not  known  to  the  doctor, 
but  carried  his  name  in  his  face,  and  advertised  him 
self  thereby  as  Friend  Best's  only  son. 

Why  a  Quaker,  and   a  rigid    Quaker,  should   have 


11G  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

thought  of  calling  a  boy  "  Liverius  "  is  a  problem  I 
cannot  solve  ;  but  that  was  the  youth's  name.  Perhaps 
there  was  a  spell  in  it,  for  he  was  the  sole  survivor  of 
five ;  and  while  Friend  Best  regarded  carnal  affection 
as  a  snare,  and  had  trained  Liverius  in  the  way  he 
wished  him  to  go.  with  unflinching  sternness  and  appar 
ent  success,  Friend  Elizabeth  "  clave  unto  the  lad," 
in  the  lovely  phrase  of  Scripture,  with  all  the  passion 
of  a  mother's  heart  who  had  been  bereaved  of  her 
children,  and  refused  to  be  comforted  because  they 
were  not,  till  the  Lord  sent  her  this  son  of  consolation. 
The  doctor  looked  at  Liverius  with  approbation  ;  he 
had  never  happened  to  see  him  before,  because  the 
Bests  had  little  to  do  with  the  medical  profession ; 
whether  it  was  the  effect  of  that  habitual  self-control 
that  calms  the  nervous  system,  and  so  equalizes  the 
circulation,  and  speaks  peace  to  that  perpetual  duel 
between  mind  and  body  which  affects  most  people  ;  or 
the  ease  which  abundant  possessions  give,  since  their 
possessor  never  knows  the  rack  of  debt,  the  terror  of 
poverty,  or  "  that  nameless  fear  which  haunts  the  steps 
of  the  moneyless  man  ;  "  or  whether  the  simple  life  and 
out-door  labor  of  the  family  fortified  them  against  dis 
ease,  this,  at  any  rate,  was  the  first  time  Dr.  Parker 
had  been  called  to  their  aid,  and  the  splendid  beauty 
of  the  young  Quaker  struck  him  with  delight :  for  Live 
rius  had  his  mother's  gift  of  outline  and  coloring,  and 
added  to  that  a  noble  masculine  figure  and  a  rarely  in 
telligent  expression.  It  is  all  very  well  for  people  to 
prate  about  mental  charms  and  the  loveliness  of  the 
soul ;  that 

"  Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat,"  — 


DOCTOR   PARKER'S   PATTY.  117 

the  stamp  of  God  on  flesh  and  blood  has  and  must 
have  a  charm  for  every  healthy  and  honest  nature.  It 
gave  the  doctor  keen  pleasure,  as  he  proceeded  to  set 
and  bandage  Friend  Best's  badly  broken  leg,  to  look 
up  now  and  then  at  this  Quaker  Apollo,  who  handed 
him  splints  and  bandages  with  quick  apprehension  of 
his  wants,  and  seemed  as  deft  and  gentle  as  he  was 
handsome. 

At  last  the  old  man  was  put  in  order,  the  bed  care 
fully  smoothed,  and  a  cup  of  hot  sassafras  tea  brought 
for  his  refreshment,  and,  promising  to  come  next  day, 
the  doctor  nodded  good-morning.  But  Liverius  fol 
lowed  him  to  the  fence  to  ask  such  questions  as  people 
unused  to  sickness  always  crave  to  ask  the  doctor,  feel 
ing  dimly  that  in  his  hands  are  the  issues  of  life  and 
death,  though  they  really  know  better. 

"  How  long  will  it  be,  doctor?"  said  the  young  man, 
eagerly. 

"  Well,  I  can't  tell,"  said  Dr.  Parker,  with  a  smile. 
"It depends  on  the  turn  things  take.  It's  a  bad  break 
age,  —  what  we  doctors  call  a  compound  fracture."  And, 
picking  a  couple  of  slender  twigs  from  the  apple-tree- 
shoot  beside  him,  the  doctor  proceeded  to  illustrate ; 
but  suddenly  Liverius  ceased  to  attend.  The  doctor,  a 
little  touched,  followed  his  eyes,  and  soon  saw  the 
cause  of  the  diversion,  —  no  less  than  his  own  Patty, 
who  had  made  herself  more  radiant  than  even  calimanco 
and  dimity  allowed,  by  straying  off  to  a  wild  apple-tree 
by  the  road-side,  and  returning  to  the  "chay"  laden 
with  blushing,  budding  apple-blossoms.  The  exercise 
of  breaking  those  thorny  and  tough  boughs  had  height 
ened  her  glowing  color  and  half  knocked  off  her  flat 
hat,  thereby  pulling  over  her  little  ear  and  against  her 


118  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

peachy  cheek  a  thick  and  glittering  tress  of  dark  curls, 
and  her  lips  were  redder  than  alder-berries  as  she 
laughed  and  nodded  to  her  father. 

"Adam  and  Eve,"  said  the  doctor  to  himself,  but 
quite  to  himself  ;  adding  to  Liverius  :  "  Good-day,  sir  ! 
good-day !  I  shall  be  back  to-morrow ; "  and  again, 
sotto  voce,  "  but  I  shan't  bring  Patty  !  " 

"What  do  you  think  about  that  }'oung  fellow?" 
said  the  doctor  to  Patty,  as  he  whipped  up  the  old  horse 
over  Milking- Yard  Hill.  "  Handsome,  aint  he?" 

"  As  tall  and  straight  as  a  poplar  tree, 

His  cheeks  as  red  as  a  rose ; 
He  looks  like  a  squire  of  high  degree 
When  dressed  in  his  Sunday  clothes," 

sang  Patty,  mockingly.  Her  father  laughed  with  an 
air  of  relief ;  the  girl  certainly  was  not  taken  with  that 
fellow's  aspect. 

Poor  doctor !  that  which  is  common  to  man  had  be 
fallen  him.  His  girl  had  grown  up  safe  in  the  fold, 
the  delight  of  his  eyes  and  the  joy  of  his  heart,  and 
here  now  was  a  young  springald  ready  to  walk  off  with 
her  for  the  term  of  her  natural  life,  and  deprive  the 
father,  who  had  reared  and  adored  her,  of  his  most 
cherished  possession.  All  this  misery  his  foreboding 
soul  had  conjured  out  of  that  one  bewildered  stare 
Liverius  had  bestowed  on  Patty.  But  jealous}*  is  pro 
phetic,  and  well  he  knew  that  if  Friend  Best's  son  were 
to  die  to-morrow,  there  were  still  enough  youths  in 
Tenterden  to  woo  Patty  ;  for  half  a  dozen  were  already 
casting  sheep's  eyes  at  her  of  a  Sunday,  and  appearing 
now  and  then  of  a  Sunday  night,  as  awkward  as  their 
own  flocks  and  herds,  to  sit  on  the  settle  by  the  fire  an 
hour  or  so,  red  and  speechless,  chewing"  meetin'-seed," 


DOCTOR   PARKER'S  PATTY.  119 

and  apparently  afflicted  with  stiff  neck,  every  one  of 
them  ;  then  at  the  nine-o'clock  bell  departing  in  shame 
faced  haste,  with  dreadful  squeaks  of  best  boots  and 
mumbling  of  adieux.  Further  than  this  mystic  demon 
stration  none  of  them  had  gotten,  so  far ;  for  Mrs. 
Parker  kept  her  glittering  eye  on  them  like  an  Ancient 
Mariueress,  and 

"  The  boldest  held  his  breath,  for  a  time ! " 

She  had  her  own  ideas  for  Patty,  and  no  one  yet  had 
met  her  requisitions.  I  suppose  this  woman  loved  her 
daughter  ;  but  there  is  love,  and  love.  I  have  known  a 
love,  so  called,  that  could  bear  no  other  affection  to 
serve  or  please  its  objects ;  that  demanded  as  the 
dreadful  price  of  peace  that  the  few  it  clung  to  should 
receive  or  recognize  no  other  affection,  social  or  natural ; 
a  love  that  was  a  daily  prison  and  thumb-screw  to  its 
beloved ;  that  became  life  and  breath  by  its  own 
strenuous  force  to  one  or  two,  and  when  it  died  and 
went  —  somewhere  !  —  took  that  breath  and  life  with 
it :  a  sort  of  post-mortem  homicide.  This  was  Mrs. 
Parker's  way  of  loving.  And  I  have  known  another 
love  that  set  all  doors  of  sunshine  open  to  its  loves ; 
that  brought  adorers  from  all  quarters  to  its  precious 
shrine ;  that  heaped  every  good  gift  upon  its  idols, 
whatever  hand  proffered  them,  and  forgot  itself  and  its 
own  passion  in  a  fervor  of  anxiety  for  the  happiness  of 
its  objects,  however  that  might  bo  best  secured,  even 
at  the  cost  of  its  own  mortal  agony.  But  this  diviner 
air  was  not  for  Patty's  breathing ;  it  is  the  atmosphere 
of  heaven,  and  too  good  for  this  poor  world. 

The  doctor  went  again  to  Friend  Best's,  and  again ; 
indeed,  he    went   many  times,  for  Abraham  was    not 


120  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

young,  and  his  bones  knit  slowly  ;  beside,  his  strong 
repression  of  the  nervous  irritation  that  will  beset  even 
Quaker  flesh  and  blood,  under  some  circumstances, 
made  him  feverish. 

"  I  wish  to  the  Lord  he  would  swear !  "  said  the 
doctor,  shaking  his  head,  as  he  jogged  home  one  day 
by  himself.  "It  would  do  him  so  much  good. 
There's  enough  electric  force  stopped  up  there  to 
turn  a  mill ;  his  blood's  all  afire,  and  there  must  be 
an  explosion,  or  leeches ;  and  I  don't  like  leeches, 
he's  too  old." 

But  leeches  it  had  to  be.  The  world  might  have 
stopped  on  its  axis  sooner  than  Friend  Best  swear. 
All  this  time  Doctor  Parker  kept  an  eye  on  Liverius  ; 
noted  how  he  peered  into  the  "  chay  "  to  see  if  Patty 
nestled  in  its  dusty  corner ;  and,  though  his  face 
always  fell  not  to  find  her,  still  kept  his  daily  watch, 
while  the  cruel  parent  chuckled  inwardly  to  see  it. 
Not  that  he  had  any  objection  to  Friend  Best's  son 
personally,  but  he  did  not  want  Patty  to  marry  any 
body  yet.  He  desired  to  put  off  the  evil  day  as  far  as 
possible,  to  keep  his  treasure  as  long  as  he  could. 
Common  sense  and  common  observation  warned  him 
that  Patty,  like  all  other  girls,  must  sometime  leave 
the  nest  and  fly  for  herself,  but  he  did  not  want  to 
think  about  it.  He  would  accept  the  inevitable,  but 
he  would  evade  it  as  long  as  he  could. 

But  the  eternal  forces  were  too  much  for  him,  as  they 
are  for  all  of  us.  Liverius  Best  was  young,  and  a  man, 
if  he  was  a  Quaker.  Hitherto  shut  out  from  women's 
society,  —  for  the  few  girls  who  were  of  his  own  faith 
lived  far  from  his  home,  and  in  their  Seventh-Day 
gear  of  poke  bonnets  and  gray  duffle  cloaks  were  not  a 


DOCTOR  PARKER'S  PATTY.  121 

delight  to  behold,  being  for  the  most  part  fat  and 
stolid  or  sallow  and  skinny,  —  Patty  Parker  fairly 
dazzled  him.  Color,  grace,  freedom,  —  these  were  un 
known  female  splendors  to  this  formal  youth.  His  ears 
rung  with  her  sweet,  gay  voice,  his  eyes  were  blinded 
\vith  her  brilliant  beauty,  which  shone  on  him  in  dreams 
and  haunted  his  daytime ;  her  laugh  echoed  with  be 
witching  mockery  from  every  bubbling  brook  that 
crossed  the  fields ;  the  orioles  seemed  to  sing  about 
her,  and  the  bobolinks  to  shout  her  name.  In  short, 
Liverius  Best  was  madly  in  love,  and  what  more  is  to 
be  said  ?  For  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Dr.  Parker, 
or  any  other  doctor  or  father  in  the  land,  succeeded  in 
keeping  Liverius  and  Patty  apart !  Not  at  all.  What 
did  a  wise  old  poet  say? 

"  Where  there  is  no  space 
For  the  glow-worm  to  lie; 
Where  there  is  no  place 
For  receipt  of  a  fly ; 
Where  the  midge  dare  not  venture 
Lest  herself  fast  she  lay; 
If  Love  come  he  will  enter 
And  find  out  the  way." 

And  Liverius  was  neither  midge  nor  fly,  that  the 
three  miles  between  Dog's  Misery  and  Tenterden 
village  should  daunt  him.  He  thought  nothing  of  the 
walk  when  some  advice  was  needed  of  the  doctor,  when 
the  saline  draughts  gave  out,  or  the  last  Dover's  powder 
had  been  used  ;  and  he  thought  still  less  of  forgetting 
to  mention  these  little  items  when  the  doctor  made  his 
visits,  though  he  might  have  saved  himself  much  shoe- 
leather  as  well  as  weariness  to  the  flesh  ;  but  what  are 
these  poor  earthly  things  to  a  blissful  sight  of  the  be- 


122  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN'. 

loved  object?  Liverius  would  have  walked  right  over 
Meriden  Mountain  and  into  the  griffins  that  tradition 
peopled  the  Peak  of  Lamentation  withal,  if  they  lay 
between  him  and  Patty.  What  to  him  were  three  miles 
and  back  of  highway?  Nor  is  it  to  be  denied  that 
before  many  days  Patty  perceived  that  this  handsome 
young  fellow  grovelled,  so  to  speak,  at  her  feet.  Cu 
riously  enough  he  never  found  the  doctor  in,  and  Patty 
always  dispensed  the  medicines  in  such  cases.  Perhaps 
it  was  fortuitous  ;  perhaps  owing  to  the  fact  that  young 
Best  always  stopped  to  flip  the  dust  from  his  shoes,  and 
shake  his  coat,  in  a  certain  clump  of  firs  on  the  hill 
above  Tenterden,  at  the  foot  of  which  lay  Dr.  Parker's 
mansion,  plainly  discernible  from  the  aforesaid  firs  ; 
but,  however  it  was,  the  doctor  never  could  be  found 
in  the  office  when  Liverius  called,  and  Patt}r  had  to 
wait  on  him. 

The  consequence  was  inevitable.  In  all  her  little  life 
Patty  had  never  before  met  such  a  youth  ;  Romeo  was 
not  a  circumstance  to  him :  Romeo,  the  prince  of 
lovers !  To  be  sure  Liverius  could  not  talk  blank 
verse,  but  to  be  thee'd  and  thou'd  was  almost  poetry, 
and  he  was  so  awfully  handsome !  Before  father  or 
mother  opened  their  careless  eyes  ;  while  Friend  Eliza 
beth's  tender  old  heart  glowed  afresh  over  her  boy's 
filial  devotion,  and  Friend  Abraham  began  to  feel  some 
meltings  and  soundings  of  the  inner  man  in  view  of 
Liverius's  unexpected  care  and  painstaking  ;  yes,  while 
the  cat  looked  the  other  way,  these  young  mice  began 
their  grande  ronde,  regardless  of  their  doom,  like 
thousands  before  them.  Do  not  let  us  protract  the 
prelude  or  describe  at  length  the  growth  of  Patty's  love 
or  the  headlong  leap  of  her  lover's  passion  ;  the  bios- 


DOCTOR   PARKER'S  PATTY.  123 

soms  on  the  apple-trees  had  long  fallen,  decked  in 
which  Patty  made  her  entree  into  Liverius's  heart ;  the 
fruit  had  set,  swelled,  become  streaked  and  painted  in 
autumnal  suns,  before  Tenterden  and  Dog's  Misery 
awoke  to  the  fact  tliat  Liverius  Best  and  Patty  Parker 
were  keeping  company.  The  earthquake  at  Lisbon 
was  nothing  to  it !  Quakers  and  Presbyterians  had 
been  in  full  cry  against  a  small  remnant  of  Prelatists, 
commonly  called  Episcopalians,  who  had  dared  to 
build  a  little  log  chapel  at  Tenterden  North  End,  and 
nail  a  cross  to  the  gable  ;  thereby  flapping  a  rag  of 
Papacy  into  the  very  face  and  eyes  of  Puritanism  and 
John  Fox.  Indeed,  this  chapel  had  been  a  rendezvous 
more  than  once  for  Liverius  and  Patty,  who  chose  it  as 
a  place  of  perfect  security  from  either  of  their  own 
sects,  and  had  learned  to  love  the  beautiful  liturgy, 
partly  from  association,  partly  for  itself. 

But  this  was  only  a  new  drop  in  their  cup  ;  it  added 
fresh  force  to  the  fury  of  their  respective  brethren  to 
learn  that  they  had  been  seen  coming  together  from 
Priest  Punderson's  chapel  on  Pard  Hill  more  than  once. 
Though  Episcopacy  was  permitted  by  government,  it 
was  s  ill  an  offence  and  a  hissing  to  both  Presby 
terians  and  Quakers  ;  like  the  cat  and  dog  they  could 
run  after  a  rat  together,  but  here  was  other  game. 
Yes ;  here  on  one  hand  was  a  bred  and  born  Quaker 
intent  on  marrying  out  of  meeting ;  and  on  the  other 
a  member  of  good  and  regular  standing  in  the  Pres 
byterian  body,  not  only  desirous  to  marry  a  Quaker, 
but  actually  found  out  in  attendance  upon  the  Pre- 
latical  services  of  Priest  Punderson  ! 

By  this  time  Friend  Best  had  gotten  to  his  feet, 
and  was  able  to  work  a  little  and  to  supervise  a  great 


124  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

deal.  This  defection  of  his  only  child  moved  him 
mightily  ;  he  uplifted  his  voice  in  a  way  that  might 
have  consoled  Doctor  Parker  for  his  assumed  inability 
to  swear,  since  the  spirit,  if  not  the  letter,  of  profanity 
took  possession  of  him.  Stern,  rigid,  white-hot  with 
passion,  he  made  life  a  torture  to  his  wife  and  son 
after  the  most  orthodox  fashion.  Friend  Elizabeth 
felt  a  sacred  rage,  it  is  true,  when  she  heard  of  Live- 
rius's  defalcation  ;  but  it  was  the  sinless  wrath  that 
Scripture  itself  commends,  and  melted  into  pity  like 
a  cloud  into  rain  when  her  sweet,  motherly  heart  fully 
comprehended  how  her  boy's  life  was  absorbed  and 
centred  in  Patty  Parker.  But  Friend  Abraham  was 
deaf  to  any  softer  emotion,  and  both  blamed  and  de 
spised  his  wife  for  giving  way  to  "  carnal  weakness  ;  " 
and  in  this  he  was  backed  up  by  the  brethren.  One 
and  all  of  this  small  conclave  felt  a  call  to  visit 
Liverius,  and  wrestle  with  him  in  spirit.  No  matter 
where  he  was,  —  infield  or  barn,  —  these  long-coated 
gentry  found  rfim  out,  and  dealt  with  him  more  or 
less  gently  according  to  their  own  nature,  but  the  bur 
den  of  all  their  song  was  :  — 

"  Thee  will  be  read  out  of  meeting,  surely,  Liverius, 
if  thee  takes  to  wife  one  of  the  world's  people  ;"  and  to 
be  "  read  out  of  meeting"  is  to  a  Quaker  what  an  in 
terdict  or  a  Papal  anathema  is  to  the  Romanist.  Con 
sider,  you  who  smile  that  such  a  threat  should  have 
terrors  for  our  hero,  that  it  meant  separation  from  all 
he  had  been  born  and  taught  to  believe  most  sacred, 
most  necessary  to  salvation  ;  and  that  at  the  period 
of  which  we  write  political  freedom  had  not  yet  in 
spired  religious  liberty  in  the  individual  soul.  Whether 
the  intoxicating  draught  of  absolute  freedom  is  best 


DOCTOR   PARKER'S  PATTY.  125 

for  soul  or  bod}7  is  not  to  be  discussed  here  ;  however 
that  may  be,  it  was  a  draught  unknown  to  Liverius 
Best,  and  he  was  in  a  bondage  of  spirit  hard  for  any 
of  us  to  recognize  to-da}T.  He  shuddered  and  trem 
bled  and  turned  pale  under  the  pressure  brought  to 
bear  upon  him ;  conscious  through  all  of  one  inevita 
ble  fact,  that  he  loved  Patty  Parker ;  but  mortally  in 
dread  of  the  threatened  consequences,  thougli  he  could 
not  and  would  not  abjure  his  love  to  prevent  them. 
Nor  did  Patty  come  off  scalhless ;  her  mother's 
tongue  was  let  loose  upon  her  with  devouring  fury  ; 
it  is  true  the  office  was  always  her  refuge,  and  no 
storm  allowed  to  pass  its  door,  but  the  doctor  himself 
was  dull  and  unhappy,  evidently,  —  kind  to  Patt^v,  but 
with  a  visible  effort.  He  was  disappointed,  cut  to  the 
heart.  Here,  in  spite  of  all  his  foresight,  right  under 
his  nose,  as  it  were,  this  young  sprig  had  made  love  to 
his  giil,  turned  her  heart  and  her  head,  and  set  the 
whole  town  talking  angrily  and  coarsely  about  her. 
The  doctor  had  old-fashioned  ideas  about  women  folks  ; 
he  believed  their  place  was 

"  That  still,  safe  corner  by  the  household  fire," 

which  some  women  never  find,  and  some  never  wish 
for,  but  which  is,  after  all,  the  true  woman's  place ; 
and  it  vexed  him  thoroughly  that  Patty  should  suffer 
from  the  strife  of  tongues.  He  was  a  candid  man, 
and  he  allowed  to  himself  that  there  was  no  personal 
objection  to  Liverius.  He  even  made  a  poor  joke  to 
Patty,  when  he  was  striving  to  keep  up  her  spirits  one 
day  about  their  being  an  eternal  fitness  of  things  in 
Liver-ius  being  connected  with  Billious  !  Patty  felt  as 
if  he  had  joked  about  the  Bible,  and  burst  into  tears. 


126  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

Poor  old  doctor !  If  Pickwick  had  been  born  then, 
how  heartily  would  he  have  agreed  with  the  immortal 
Weller,  that  "women  are  rum  creeturs  "  !  To  think 
his  mild,  professional  joke  should  have  made  Patty 
cry !  He  turned  sadly  away,  and  went  to  work  at  his 
books.  He  saw  trouble  before  his  darling ;  be  knew 
what  her  life  would  be  if  she  entered  a  divided  family, 
though  love  should  have  triumphed  so  far  as  to  allow 
her  entrance.  He  knew  the  poison  aud  fury  of  his 
wife's  tongue  and  temper,  and  he  knew  something 
worse  than  either  :  that  his  own  tenure  of  life  was 
uncertain,  and  that  it  behooved  him  to  do  what  he 
could  for  Patty  while  he  had  opportunity  and  time. 
He  was  seen  more  than  once  to  enter  Squire  Morton's 
office ;  but  then  the  Squire  had  hereditary  gout,  so 
nobody  made  any  remark,  and  nobody  knew,  till  months 
after,  what  patient  was  provided  for  in  that  little 
shanty. 

But  Patty  suffered  in  spite  of  her  father's  sad  kind 
ness  quite  as  much  as  was  necessarj-.  Her  mother  re 
viled,  reproached,  and  entreated  her,  till  her  very  soul 
was  sick  and  sore  within.  The  elders  of  the  church 
visited  her  and  remonstrated  with  her.  Parson  Hyde 
summoned  her  into  his  studj*,  and  prayed  with  her  by 
the  hour,  and  Parson  Hyde,  as  old  Moll  Pitcher  said, 
could  "pray  like  a  house-a-fire."  Patty  herself  was 
shocked  —  a  little  —  to  find  how  interested  she  became 
in  the  struggles  of  a  fly  to  escape  from  a  spider  who 
had  netted  it  in  his  web,  while  the  parson  was  praying  ; 
but  her  knees  did  ache  so  ;  and  it  was  so  dreadful  to  be 
put  down  and  prayed  for  as  if  you  were  dead !  Poor 
Patty ! 

But  worse  than  all  were  the  visitations  of  the  mothers 


DOCTOR  PARKER'S  PATTY.  127 

in  Israel,  who  must  needs  have  a  finger  in  the  pie, 
being  competent  to  deal  with  a  woman  because  they 
were  women !  Patty  did  not  agree  with  them  there ; 
she  had  borne  with  the  elders  in  a  sort  of  sullen 
patience  because  she  had  been  brought  up  in  an  ortho 
dox  fashion  to  consider,  theoretically,  that  the  man 
was  the  head  of  the  woman,  collectively  as  well  as  in 
dividually.  But  when  Madam  Hall,  and  Aunt  Peters, 
and  Goody  Pogue,  one  after  another,  took  her  to  do, 
wagged  their  wide-ruffled  caps  at  her,  and  nodded 
their  gray  heads  in  awful  prophecy,  nagging  and  bait 
ing  her  as  only  women  can  nag  and  bait  each  other, 
Patty's  patience  gave  wa}*,  and,  by  a  sort  of  poetic 
justice,  which  I  take  to  be  real,  not  legal,  justice,  the 
forces  of  gossip  came  to  her  aid.  She  had  not  been  to 
quillings,  and  huskings,  and  apple-parings  in  vain  ;  she 
had  eaten  of  the  tree  of  knowledge  like  her  grandam  in 
Eden,  and  now  she  used  that  knowledge  to  effect,  — 
politely  recalling  to  Madam  Hall  how  her  own  eldest 
daughter  had  skipped  out  of  window  to  elope  with 
Aminadab  Edwards,  the  gayest  rake  in  all  Connecticut, 
but  now  a  brilliant  and  hard-working  lawyer,  of  whom 
the  Halls  were  proud  enough.  Then  she  laid  before 
Goody  Pogue  the  reckless  fact  that  she  for  her  part  in 
tended  to  marry  the  man  she  loved :  an  announcement 
which  silenced  that  old  lad}7,  and  set  her  face  home 
ward.  For  Goody  was  well  known  to  be  a  late  repent 
ant  sinner,  and  to  have  had  high  words  with  the  late 
Jeremiah  concerning  some  passages  of  her  youth.  And 
on  Aunt  Peters  she  turned  with  the  fury  of  long-borne 
exasperation  :  — 

"And   I   should   like   to   know,  Mis'  Peters,  what 
earthly  business  'tis  of  yours  what  my  father's  daughter 


128  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

does  ?  He  can  take  care  of  me,  I  guess  !  'ncl  yon  aint 
my  aunt  save  and  except  out  of  civility  "  (Mrs.  Peters 
being  the  doctor's  step-sister),  "and  I  •wouldn't  bear 
it  if  you  was.  So  there  !  " 

With  which  Patty  fled  upstairs,  slamming  the  door 
behind  her,  feminine  fashion,  and  leaving  Aunt  Peters 
with  upraised  hands,  pouring  out  vials  of  wrath  not  to 
be  exceeded  by  Mrs.  Parker  herself. 

It  was  a  hard  time  for  Patty  and  Liverius  both.  It 
is  all  very  well  to  read  about  these  things  ;  to  be 
deeply  interested  in  the  struggles  and  sufferings  of  the 
poor  lovers  who  are  annually  and  by  thousands  — 

"  Butchered  to  make  a  "  reader's  "  holiday." 

But  when  one  comes  to  go  through  the  agonies  so 
pleasant  to  hear,  that  is  quite  another  matter.  It  is 
far  easier  to  grind  than  to  be  ground  ;  and  no  wonder 
Patty's  cheek  lost  its  splendid  glow,  her  eyes  their 
light,  her  voice  its  sweet  ring ;  or  that  Liverius  also 
became  pale,  stooping,  dull  of  aspect,  and  weary  al 
ways. 

When  a  storm  has  lasted  long  and  drenched  all 
nature  with  dark,  chill  floods  day  after  day,  filled 
heaven  with  sobbing  winds  and  earth  with  turbid 
streams,  there  conies  sometimes  a  gust  of  thunder  and 
lightning  and  whirlwind,  and  "  the  old  order  changes, 
giving  place  to  new."  It  is  true  men  are  smitten  some 
times,  houses  levelled,  forests  mowed  as  by  a  reaper ; 
but  the  long,  cold  storm  is  swept  away,  and  the  blue 
sky  lifts  its  benign  arch  again  over  a  sweet,  untroubled 
world. 

Such  a  thunderstroke  burst  on  Patty,  when,  one 
bitter  December  day,  old  Whitey  jogged  up  to  the  door 


DOCTOR  PARKER'S  PATTY.  129 

with  Liverins  Best  driving,  and  a  strange,  prone  burden 
lying  at  length  on  the  floor  of  the  box  sleigh.  The 
doctor  had  been  down  beyond  Milking- Yard  Hill  to  see 
a  patient,  had  done  his  office,  and  set  out  for  home. 
What  further  chanced  no  man  could  know.  Liverius 
had  seen  the  sleigh  standing  still  on  the  turnpike  just 
at  the  edge  of  the  Dog's  Misery  intervale,  and, 
foreboding  evil,  gone  on  to  investigate,  and  found, 
still  breathing,  but  utterly  unconscious,  poor  Dr. 
Parker. 

It  is  hard  to  die :  hard  to  the  natural  man,  even 
when  friends  gather,  and  loving  tendance  aids,  and 
there  are  kind  and  conscious  words  passing  between 
the  living  and  the  dying.  But  to  die  alone  and 
speechless  ;  to  go  out  of  life  unshriven,  unreconciled, 
without  one  parting  word,  one  tender  look,  one  small 
est  token  of  love  and  peace,  what  must  this  be  to  the 
departed?  Alas  !  what  is  it  not  to  those  who  are  left? 
For  such  loss  there  is  no  compensation  ;  for  such 
wounds  no  healing.  They  will  throb,  and  ache,  and 
burn,  while  time  endures  ;  the  soul  will  be  haunted 
and  the  heart  wrung  even  in  its  deepest  and  most 
utter  submission  to  the  will  of  God,  and  the  only 
utterance,  even  out  of  the  Divine  Book,  that  is  left  to 
such  survivor,  is  the  despairing  outer}'  of  Uz :  — 

"  Though  he  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in  Him." 

In  all  Patty's  after  life,  happy  as  it  was,  she  never 
forgot  or  ceased  to  mourn  her  father,  for  he  "  died  and 
gave  no  sign." 

Not  that  he  died  at  once,  for  day,  and  night,  and 
still  another  day,  went  by,  and  there  he  lay,  dead  to 
every  appeal  of  love  or  pity,  —  dead  to  every  sense ; 
dead  to  thought  and  feeling,  but  alive  in  gasping 


130  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

breath ;  a  terror  to  those  who  stood  about  him,  perhaps 
an  agony  to  himself  ;  but  of  that  who  shall  tell  ?  Patty 
was  stunned  by  the  shock.  The  voluble  grief  of  her 
mother  fell  idly  on  her  ear.  The  talk  of  the  neighbors, 
the  intruding  sympathy  of  relatives,  the  exhortations 
of  Parson  Hyde,  assailed  on  her  heedless  sense  like 
the  babble  of  children.  She  could  not  feel ;  she  could 
not  weep  ;  she  could  do  what  was  to  be  done,  with  her 
ordinary  aspect  and  usual  deftness  of  touch  and  execu 
tive  talent ;  but  her  heart  slept  while  her  brain  woke. 
A  man  in  her  place  would  have  given  way,  perhaps  ; 
made  his  auaijlj  moan,  stirred  up  the  ready  sympa 
thies  of  friends,  and  been  set  down  forever  as  a  tender 
and  profound  mourner ;  but  Patty  passed  as  unfeeling. 
She  was  called  hard-hearted,  even,  by  the  old  women 
she  had  routed  when  they  came  to  exhort  her,  and 
supposed  (audibly)  to  cherish  resentment  against  her 
dead  father  for  interfering  with  her  love  affair  ;  when 
in  fact  she  was  simply  stunned  by  a  blow  she  had  not 
foreseen. 

When  the  funeral  was  over,  and  that  cheery  life-long 
presence  gone  forever,  Patty  gave  way,  and  a  slow 
fever  beset  her,  —  a  fever  so  slow  that  it  made  no  haste 
to  leave  her,  and  for  nine  long  weeks  she  lay  somewhere 
near  death's  door,  and  not  much  aided  or  comforted  by 
the  draughts  and  leeches  of  old  Dr.  Potter  from  Meri- 
den,  who  was  called  to  her  help  as  soon  as  might  be. 
But  3'outh  and  a  good  constitution  are  sometimes  too 
much  even  for  a  doctor.  Spring  drew  near,  and  Patty 
began  to  mend.  Liverius  had  been  like  one  beside 
himself  all  these  weeks.  He  grew  thin,  hectic,  irri 
table  ;  sleep  did  not  rest  him  or  food  nourish  him. 
Patty  was  or  might  be  dying,  and  he  could  not  even  see 


DOCTOR   PARKER'S  PATTY.  131 

her !  His  only  comfort  was  to  waylay  the  doctor,  and 
torment  him  with  inquiries.  But,  when  Patty  began  at 
last  to  mend,  Liverius  took  heart  again.  The  "  meet 
ing"  had  let  him  alone  of  late,  though  his  father  was 
still  severe  and  contemptuous,  and  his  mother  sad  to 
dreariness.  He  had  at  least  time  to  possess  his  soul  in 
patience,  and  he  had  thought  much  and  deeply  in  that 
solitude.  There  was  a  firm  set  to  his  lips  and  a  steady 
light  in  his  eye  unknown  before,  and  a  certain  deter 
minate  energy  moved  his  axe  and  saw  that  might  have 
told  their  story  to  the  acute  observer. 

When  Patty  was  well  again  and  able  to  be  down 
stairs,  though  still  weak  and  languid,  Squire  Morton 
came  to  see  her,  to  tell  her  about  her  father's  will, 
which  she  had  neither  known  nor  thought  of  all  this 
time.  Poor  Patty  could  have  spared  the  information, 
considerate  as  it  was  ;  for  to  learn  how  carefully  and 
tenderly  her  father  had  provided  for  her  future,  even 
while  she  was  paining  the  very  depths  of  his  great,  kind 
heart,  was  like  losing  him  over  again,  and  set  free  all 
the  bitter  floods  that  illness  and  stunned  apprehension 
had  held  so  long  in  their  fountains.  Squire  Morton  had 
not  expected  his  tidings  to  be  received  with  passionate 
and  profuse  tears  ;  but  he  was  an  old  man  and  a  lawyer, 
and  had  seen  women  before,  so  he  only  took  an  extra 
pinch  of  snuff,  and  proceeded  to  impress  on  Patty  the 
fact  that  her  mother  was  left  a  life-use  of  the  homestead 
and  farm  attached ;  after  that  life-use,  to  revert  to 
Patty  ;  and  that  to  the  girl  herself  was  left  another  and 
larger  farm  in  the  neighboring  township,  with  good 
house  and  barns  thereon,  and  also  a  certain  store  of 
money,  amounting  to  some  five  hundred  pounds  sterling, 
now  in  the  hands  of  Squire  Morton,  awaiting  her  orders. 


132  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

Patty  took  heart  wonderfully  in  the  next  few  weeks, 
although  her  mother  raved  and  raged  worse  than  ever, 
seeing  that  the  heiress  of  such  a  portion  was  clean  out 
of  her  power  and  able  to  do  what  she  would,  —  a 
fact  the  heiress  began  quickly  to  appreciate. 

But  of  all  this  Liverius  knew  nothing.  Out  of  sheer 
love  to  Patty  and  conscious  inability  to  endure  his  life 
without  her,  he  had  resolved  on  sudden  and  stringent 
measures ;  and  b}r  some  of  those  sly  means  known  to 
desperate  lovers  he  conveyed  to  her  a  missive,  begging, 
nay,  insisting,  on  a  meeting.  And  after  much  suspense 
and  delay  —  for  Patty  was  spied  upon  and  hindered 
in  a  way  he  knew  not  of  —  he  received  a  tiny  note  to 
tell  him  she  should  be  in  the  graveyard  an  hour  before 
sunset  on  Wednesday. 

Forlorn  tryst!  but  its  selection  showed  Patty's 
feminine  acuteness.  Wednesday  afternoon  a  quilting 
was  to  be  held  at  Mrs.  Hall's,  and  nothing  could  have 
kept  the  Widow  Parker  back  from  that  decorous  gath 
ering,  permitted,  as  so  few  social  joys  were,  even  to 
recent  widowhood.  She  did  not  dream  that  Patty 
would  or  could  leave  the  house,  for  as  3~et  she  had 
made  no  such  effort ;  but  she  engaged  old  Moll  Thun 
der,  the  half-breed  vagabond,  who  filled  all  gaps  of 
service  in  Tenterden  (provided  she  could  be  found) 
to  stay  in  the  house  lest  Patty  should  need  something. 

It  was  easy  to  calm  Moll's  vigilance  and  fix  her  by 
the  kitchen  fire,  if  once  her  cider-pitcher  and  her 
tobacco-pouch  were  full,  and  Patty  replenished  both 
before  she  slipped  on  her  levantine  hood  and  sacque 
and  stole  out  of  the  door  to  meet  Liverius. 

The  graveyard  lay,  according  to  Yankee  fashion,  on 
a  hill- side  ;  but  it  was  not  on  any  high  road,  and  clumps 


DOCTOR  PARKER'S  PATTY.  133 

of  self-sown  young  white  pines,  fragrant  and  shadowy, 
afforded  shelter  to  such  visitors  as  would  avoid  sun, 
wind,  rain,  or,  as  in  this  case,  detection.  As  soon  as 
Patty's  trembling  steps  closed  the  rude  gate  behind 
her  Liverius  appeared  from  one  of  these  rustling, 
sighing,  odorous  arbors,  and,  drawing  her  into  the 
shade,  gave  sweet,  if  silent,  greeting  to  the  scarlet  lips 
and  tender  eyes  he  had  not  seen  for  so  long. 

"  0  Patty!  "  he  said  at  last,  with  a  long  sigh,  "  I 
never,  never  will  lose  sight  of  thee  again  !  We  must 
marry  in  spite  of  everything  ! " 

"But,  dear,"  half  sobbed  Patty,  "we  can't!  we 
can't !  "  for  Patty's  resolution  failed  her,  and  all  her 
old  terrors  returned  as  this  dictatorial  youth  laid  down 
the  law. 

"  I  don't  know  why  we  can't,"  the  man  answered, 
manfullj-. 

"  O  Liverius,  it  will  be  so  wicked  !  I  can't  possibly 
turn  Friend,  and  you  won't  come  to  our  meeting?" 

This  was  half  a  question,  and  it  was  quickly 
answered. 

"  Come  to  thy  meeting?  Fellowship  those  who 
have  hunted  thee  like  a  partridge  upon  the  mountains? 
Never !  I  will  never  sit  down  with  them  who  have 
made  thee  and  me  wretched,  because  we  loved  one 
another,  even  as  the  Book  commandeth.  Patty,  is  thee 
afraid  to  be  poor  —  with  me  ?  " 

Liverius's  handsome  face  glowed  with  resolute 
passion  and  pride,  as  he  asked  the  question.  But 
wicked  Patty  answered  it  with  a  little  giggle ;  for 
well  she  knew  there  was  no  poverty  in  question,  and  it 
tickled  her  secret  soul  to  think  Liverius  did  not  know 
it.  But  she  saw  his  face  darken  at  her  ill-timed  mirth  ;, 


134  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

he  was  in  as  deadly  earnest  as  ever  Luther,  going  into 
the  councils  of  his  foes.  So  she  constrained  herself  to 
whisper :  — 

"  No,  /aint  afraid." 

"  Then  my  mind  is  resolved,  and  thee  will  come  with 
me.  We  will  break  away  from  this  godless  slavery 
that  holds  us  in  unreasonable  bonds.  I  will  give  up 
my  religion,  and  thee  shall  give  up  thine.  We  will 
marry,  and  go  into  the  Church  of  England,  and  go  to 
the  devil  together  !  " 

"Oh!"  shrieked  Patty. 

But  the  veracious  chronicler  who  recorded  the  above 
story  adds :  — 

"  And  they  fulfilled  their  resolution,  soe  farre  as 
goeing  intoe  the  churche,  and  inarrieing,  and  abyding 
there  for  lyfe." 

And  if  the  testimony  of  descendants,  who  followed 
the  footsteps  of  Liverius  Best,  and  Patty  his  wife, 
down  into  these  present  years,  still  possessing  the 
farm  where  this  happy  pair  settled  after  Priest  Punderson 
married  them,  is  of  any  worth  beyond  mere  legendary 
lore,  then  Liverius  and  Patty  went  no  further ;  for 
they  are  still  told  of  as  blessings  to  their  neighbors,  — 
kindly,  hospitable,  charitable, — as  the  most  devoted 
parents  and  faithful  friends. 

Mrs.  Parker  never  forgave  Patty,  and  Goody  Pogue 
spoke  evil  of  her  always.  But  Friend  Elizabeth,  after 
her  husband's  sudden  death,  came  to  live  with  them, 
and  her  last  days  were  gilded  with  serenest  sunshine. 
Several  of  their  children  returned  to  the  Presbyterian 
fold,  with  their  parents'  full  consent,  having  been  led 
thither  by  strong  affection  for  some  youth  or  maiden  of 
that  flock.  Patty,  the  second,  seceded  to  Quakerism, 


DOCTOR    PARKER'S  PATTY.  135 

beguiled  by  a  second  cousin,  who  had  taken  the  Dog's 
Misery  Farm. 

"  Are  you  glad,  granny?  "  she  said  to  Friend  Eliza 
beth, —  now  an  old  angel  of  fourscore,  just  ready  for 
her  homeward  flight,  —  when  she  told  her  of  her  inten 
tion. 

"  I  am  glad  thee  is  happy,  my  child,"  said  the  sweet, 
old,  tremulous  voice.  "  I  am  too  near  to  the  General 
Assembly  and  Church  of  the  First-Boru  to  care  by 
which  road  n^  beloved  hasten  thither.  My  spirit  was 
once  sore  unto  death  over  thy  father  and  mother  lead 
ing  into  Episcopal  meeting ;  but  the  Lord  halh  taught 
me  better,  Patty.  I  know  now  that  all  nations,  and 
people,  and  kindred,  and  tongues  shall  come  into  one 
habitation,  but  that  Christ  is  all,  and  is  in  all !  For  I 
am  persuaded  that  no  sect  or  form  of  worship  of  man's 
contriving,  —  '  neither  death,  nor  life,  nor  angels,  nor 
principalities,  nor  powers,  nor  things  present,  nor 
things  to  come,  nor  height,  nor  depth,  nor  any  other 
creature,  —  shall  be  able  to  separate  us  from  the  love 
of  God,  which  is  in  Christ  Jesus  our  Lord  ! ' ' 

"  Amen ! "  solemnly  answered  Liverius,  who  had 
waited  at  the  open  door  till  his  mother's  testimony 
finished. 


136  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 


DOOM    AND    DAN. 


MOSES  DYER  was  a  Quaker  ;  one  of  the  straitest  sort. 
In  him  strong  natural  passion,  keen  enthusiasm,  deep 
feeling,  had  all  been  repressed  and  compressed  by 
creed  and  training  ;  under  his  calm  and  rigid  exterior 
lay  sleeping  fires  ready  to  desolate  his  life,  but,  being 
yet  young  and  strong  when  he  comes  into  our  vision, 
these  fires  within,  like  steam  at  high  pressure,  only 
served  to  impel  him  in  all  the  activities  of  life,  and 
make  of  him  a  hard-working,  thrifty,  quietly  energetic 
young  man,  whose  deep,  dark  eyes  now  and  then  flashed 
but  never  flamed,  whose  crisp,  dark  hair  defied  in  its 
abundant  rings  even  the  shears  of  the  village  barber, 
and  whose  stalwart  form  displayed  strength,  vigor,  and 
symmetry  that  would  have  served  Praxiteles  as  a  model. 
The  few  old  men  of  his  sect  in  the  near  neighborhood 
of  Dorset,  where  he  was  born,  shook  their  gray  heads 
over  his  probable  life. 

"  There  is  a  hard  wrastle  for  Moses,  I  expect,"  said 
old  Jacob  Morris  ;  "  thee  will  see,  Friend  Harding,  the 
youth  will  have  much  to  strive  with  before  he  can  enter 
into  quietness  ;  the  flesh  and  the  devil  will  be  pecooliar 
hard  on  him,  appears  to  me." 

"  It  may  be  so,  Jacob ;  thee  knows  Moses  better 
than  I  do.  I  should  say  that  he  will  make  a  man  of 
mark  among  the  brethren.  I  trust  he  will  be  guided 


DOOM  AND  DAN.  137 

in  the  choice  of  a  partner  in  life.  I  am  free  to  believe 
that  will  be  a  turning-point  with  the  youth." 

A  faint  glimmer  of  chastened  humor  played  over 
Jacob's  face. 

"  I  think  thee  may  be  right,  Friend  Harding  ;  I  feel 
to  be  grateful  that  Divine  Providence  did  not  place  the 
guiding  of  the  youth  in  my  hands." 

"  I  think  thee  has  much  to  be  thankful  for,"  dryly 
replied  Friend  Harding  ;  for,  being  an  older  man  than 
Jacob,  and  once  a  power  in  u  meeting,"  before  Quaker 
ism  had  dwindled  to  the  mere  handful  now  left  in 
Dorset,  he  had  been  through  a  wider  experience  of 
human  nature  than  this  placid  old  man,  whoso  home 
high  on  White  Mountain  had  been  a  sort  of  hermit's 
cell  all  his  life,  and  saved  him  from  that  knowledge  of 
good  and  evil  which  destroys  as  often  as  it  educates. 

Moses  Dyer  was  indeed  left  to  no  direction  but  that 
of  the  Divine  leading  now,  for  his  father  and  mother, 
both  rigid  devotees  of  their  faith,  died  within  six 
months  of  each  other,  soon  after  he  was  twenty-one, 
and  even  the  small  brown  house  in  Dorset  street,  which 
he  remembered  all  his  life  as  an  ideal  of  a  Friend's 
dwelling,  so  spotless  was  its  purity,  so  stern  its  order, 
so  fixed  its  routine,  had  been  burned  to  the  ground  the 
next  year,  and  ever  since,  Moses  had  boarded  with 
Friend  Morris  up  on  White  Mountain,  and  come  down 
every  day  to  his  grist-mill  on  Black  river,  his  dinner- 
pail  on  his  arm.  With  all  their  peculiarities  of  doctrine 
and  living  the  Friends  are  a  thrifty  tribe,  and  old  Sol 
omon  Dyer  had  done  the  milling  for  a  circle  of  twenty 
miles'  diameter  a  great  many  years,  laid  up  store  of 
money  in  Rutland  bank,  and  held  mortgages  on  many 
a  goodly  farm  in  Dorset ;  all  of  these  worldly  posses- 


138  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

sions  coming  into  his  son's  hands,  since  he  was  an  only 
child  ;  but  Moses  still  kept  to  "  plain"  customs.  Friend 
Ilarding's  good  wishes  for  Moses  did  not  seem  near  of 
fulfilment,  for  there  were  few  maidens  of  the  faith 
about  that  part  of  the  country  now,  and  none  of  these 
were  comely  and  pleasant  enough  to  attract  Moses 
Dyer.  It  was  out  of  his  own  experience  that  John 
Harding  had  spoken  ;  he  knew  in  his  heart  that  his  own 
anchor  to  peace  and  patience  was  his  wife  Susannah, 
whose  face  was  still  as  smooth,  as  placid,  and  almost 
as  fair,  beneath  the  gleaming  silver  of  her  parted  hair, 
as  when  they  t-.vo  stood  up  in  meeting  together,  —  two 
pallid  statues,  timidity  and  emotion  sending  her  soft 
color  and  his  ruddy  blood  into  banishment,  and  filling 
her  tender  eyes  with  shyness  and  tears. 

But  for  her,  he  very  well  knew  what  his  life  would 
have  been,  for  this  man's  nature,  too,  was  stormy  ;  but 
this  gentle  voice,  this  soft  touch,  guided  him  past  all 
quicksands,  and  kept  him  in  the  Friends'  fellowship  till 
he  attained  to  being  a  minister  among  them  ;  the  agita 
tions  of  his  youth  were  laid  to  rest  forever,  and  his 
home  became  a  foretaste  of  the  world  that  now  lay  so 
close  before  him. 

For  Moses  no  such  angel  waited,  at  least  in  Dorset ; 
so  he  plodded  on  his  daily  way,  grinding  and  bolting, 
taking  toll,  filling  barrels  and  emptying  bags,  taking 
his  pleasure  only  in  a  keen  delight  in  nature,  a  delight 
that  was  his  secret  treasure ;  for  he  knew  that  Dorset 
people  considered  that  a  man  who  would  climb  a  hill  to 
see  the  sun  set  was  a  fool  or  a  lunatic,  and  would  pass 
the  same  judgment  on  him  if  he  dared  to  hint  at  the 
beauty  of  a  field  strewn  white  with  ox-eyed  daisies, 
swayed  by  ever}'  gentle  wind,  following  the  sun  with 


DOOM  AND   DAN  139 

fair  faces  from  east  to  west,  drooping  their  light  stems 
with  graceful  spring  and  rebound  under  each  swift 
drop  of  summer  rain,  when  they  were  only  weeds,  and 
"pesky  weeds"  at  that. 

It  almost  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  found  one  of 
these,  incarnate,  when,  one  May  morning,  as  he  opened 
the  mill  door,  he  looked  across  the  little  river  and  saw 
on  a  gray  rock,  that  jutted  out  into  the  stream  just  be 
low,  a  slight  girl's  figure,  with  a  fishing-rod  in  hand, 
balancing  it  above  the  water  with  unpractised  fingers. 
"  A  slip  of  a  girl"  an  Irishman  would  have  said,  yet 
Moses  stared  at  her  as  if  she  were  a  heavenly  vision ; 
her  wide  hat  had  fallen  off,  and  hanging  at  the  back  of 
her  head  made  an  oval  black  background  for  the  tender 
face  flushed  with  the  keen  freshness  of  the  hour ;  her 
light  brown  hair  had  fallen,  too,*  and  the  sun-rays 
touched  it  with  golden  lights.  Her  clear,  gray  eyes  and 
dark  lashes  gave  a  peculiar  interest  to  the  almost 
childish  features  and  delicate,  languid  lips  half  parted 
above  her  white  teeth.  Dress  did  not  enhance  this 
loveliness.  Nelly  Wood  was  clothed  upon  with  nothing 
more  elegant  than  a  clean,  cheap  calico ;  only  a  little 
blue  silk  handkerchief  tied  about  her  throat  gave  the 
one  touch  of  color  to  the  picture  ;  but  Moses  never  for 
got  that  picture  to  his  dying  day. 

He  looked  and  looked,  with  his  soul  in  his  eyes, 
standing  as  if  palsied  on  the  threshold  of  his  mill  till  a 
eharp  old  voice  called,  "Nelly!  Nell}'!"  and  the 
vision  turned,  dropped  the  rod,  and  sprang  down  the 
rock. 

He  knew  that  voice  very  well.  Orlando  "Wood  kept 
the  Dorset  tavern  and  dispensed  in  its  dirty,  noisy  bar 
room  half  the  misery  in  the  township  under  the  names 


140  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

of  cider,  brandy  and  rum.  He  was  a  drunken,  dis 
reputable  old  miscreant  himself,  and  despised  by  Moses 
in  that  hearty  way  that  consciously  moral  and  upright 
people  do  despise  disreputable  sinners. 

But,  for  all  that,  the  daisy  face  and  swaying  figure 
haunted  the  miller  all  day  ;  he  saw  it  when  he  inspected 
the  dark  and  dripping  wheel,  appearing  and  disap 
pearing  between  the  buckets  ;  it  seemed  to  hover  over 
the  hopper  and  hide  behind  the  great,  upright  beams  of 
the  mill,  and  as  he  jogged  up  White  Mountain  the  soft 
gray  beech  trunks,  brocaded  with  velvety  black  moss, 
the  tall  pine  boles  reddened  by  the  sinking  sun,  —  all 
seemed  to  him  possible  haunt  and  shelter  for  the  slight 
shape  that  had  eluded  his  gaze  so  soon  when  Orlando 
Wood's  sharp  voice  called  her. 

"Ay,  that's  the  rub,"  was  the  thought  of  his  heart, 
but  he  thrust  it  aside  ;  for  once  his  self-control  did 
evil  service  to  him ;  when  he  should  have  thought  he 
would  not  think.  He  gave  rather  free  rein  to  passion 
hitherto  kept  so  firmly  in  hand,  and,  refusing  inwardly 
to  perceive  the  unfitness  of  yielding  to  a  moment's 
fancy,  gave  himself  up  to  the  wild  reign  of  a  dream  ; 
human  nature  can  master  even  a  Quaker. 

Yet  whom  does  it  not  master  ? 

"  Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead" 

that  the  delirium  of  primeval  love  never  possessed  and 
overwhelmed,  and  illuminated  him?  that  he  never  tasted 
the  divine,  uplifting,  transforming  rapture  that  in  its 
fresh  beginning  is  the  one  exponent  of  heaven  to  the 
most  earthly  soul?  Perhaps  there  is,  but  that  man 
was  not  Moses  Dyer  ;  all  the  more  for  his  monotonous 
past,  his  denied  and  restrained  life,  his  full  and  power- 


DOOM  AND  DAN.  141 

ful  manhood  with  all  its  sternly  repressed  emotions 
and  longings,  did  he  come  under  the  sway  of  this 
sceptre  which  rules  now  and  forever  in  "  the  court,  the 
camp,  the  grove."  Like  a  mountain  torrent  which  the 
strong,  sweet  sun  sets  free  from  its  winter  prison,  he 
swept  on  toward  his  goal  with  a  swiftness  and  power 
that  startled  all  the  neighborhood. 

In  spite  of  warning  and  remonstrance,  of  advice 
and  entreaty,  knowing  that  he  lost  caste  with  all  the 
town  in  seeking  out  and  adoring  the  niece  of  a  man 
like  Orlando  Wood,  and  that  he  would  be  turned  out  of 
meeting  in  Rutland  for  marrying  one  of  the  world's 
people,  he  not  only  made  Nelly  Wood's  acquaintance, 
but  in  one  short  month  thereafter  asked  her  to  marry 
him. 

Poor  little  Nelly  !  —  she  was  a  gentle,  silly,  lov 
ing  creature,  with  small  education.  An  orphan,  and 
almost  friendless,  she  earned  her  scant  living  by  tend 
ing  at  the  counter  of  a  milliner's  shop  in  Boston  till 
her  health  failed  entirely,  and  in  despair  she  wrote  a 
pitiful  letter  to  her  uncle,  whom  she  knew  to  be  a 
reprobate,  but  who  was,  after  all,  her  only  kin,  asking 
him  to  let  her  come  to  Dorset  and  rest.  He  had  let 
her  come,  for  he  was  kindly  enough  when  he  was 
sober,  and  his  laz}'  wife  hoped  to  get  a  little  help  about 
the  house,  or  save  the  wages  of  a  table-girl.  But 
Nelly  found  here  more  than  she  dreamed  of ;  as  wan 
and  frail  as  any  daisy,  she  found  her  sun,  and  both 
light  and  life  in  him.  As  long  as  those  great  gray  63-es 
lifted  their  dark  fringes  and  looked  into  his  with  utter 
love,  as  long  as  the  full,  languid  lips  trembled  under  his 
kisses,  and  those  clinging  arms  hung  about  his  bended 
neck,  Moses  Dyer  did  not  care  the  wing  of  a  midge  for 


142  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

all  the  tongues  of  men  or  penalties  of  the  church ;  the 
earth  might  have  yawned  under  his  feet  and  the  floods 
poured  about  him  from  an  angry  heaven,  if  he  could 
clasp  that  slight  shape  close  to  his  heart  and  know  that 
it  was  his  own  in  life  or  death. 

Yet,  to  other  eyes,  to  all  outward  appearance  he  was 
even  more  rigid  than  ever ;  there  was  no  observer  in 
Dorset  keen  enough  to  interpret  the  dark,  steady  flush 
on  his  cheek,  the  deep  gleam  of  his  eyes,  or  the  con 
trolled  depths  of  his  voice,  held  in  tight  leash,  lest  it 
should  tremble  with  the  passion  that  possessed  him, 
and  betray  the  sweet  madness  rioting  in  his  veins. 
Friend  Harding  alone  refrained  from  word  or  sign  of 
remonstrance,  though  he  alone  understood  even  par 
tially  the  state  of  things. 

"I  wouldn't,  if  I  was  thee,  William,  say  much  tc 
Moses,"  Susannah  had  incidentally  remarked,  when 
William  told  her  of  Moses's  infatuation,  and  what  the 
Meeting  in  Rutland  thought  about  it,  they  having  asked 
him  to  deal  with  Moses  with  a  view  to  his  restoration. 

"  Thee  knows  Moses  is  strong  in  spirit,  and  cleaves 
to  the  girl  mightily  ;  it  is  not  clear  to  me  that  thee  can 
mend  the  matter.  Men-folks  are  not  to  be  moved  like 
saplings  ;  and  the  dealings  of  Providence  are,  I  some 
times  think,  like  the  ark  of  the  Lord,  which  may  not  be 
touched  by  man,  even  to  help." 

"  I  had  not  designed  to  speak  with  him,  Susannah  ; 
I  had  no  leading  to  do  this  business  for  the  Meeting. 
Thee  knows  I  do  not  mean  to  be  guided  by  man  ;  and 
it  is  possible  that  I  have  a  deeper  sense  of  the  youth's 
nature  than  some  have.  I  surely  do  not  think  it  is  the 
part  of  wisdom  to  hold  speech  with  him  on  this  occa 
sion." 


DOOM  AND  DAN.  143 

And  he  looked  at  his  fair  old  wife  with  eyes  that 
told,  could  she  have  read  their  language,  how  ill  it 
would  have  fared  with  Meeting  or  man  who  had  dared 
to  intermeddle  with  his  love  for  her  ! 

So  Moses  Dyer,  in  spite  of  all  the  town  and  all  his 
brethren  in  the  faith,  went  on  triumphantly  in  his  course 
of  true  love ;  and  a  mortgage  falling  in  about  this  time 
on  one  of  the  finest  farms  in  Dorset,  whose  owner  had 
borrowed  the  money  on  it  to  go  to  California,  and  died 
there,  making  no  provision  to  redeem  the  property, 
Moses  resolved  to  build  a  house  on  that  portion  of  the 
land  nearest  the  mill ;  so  before  the  end  of  July,  when 
he  and  Nelly  were  married,  the  frame  of  a  stately  man 
sion,  for  those  days  and  that  place,  was  raised,  and  the 
barn  in  its  rear  completed  in  season  to  house  the  hay 
crop. 

To  say  that  Moses  was  happy  is  a  weak  phrase ;  it 
did  not  concern  him  at  all  that  he  had  to  be  married  by 
a  "  hireling  ministry,"  or  that  the  Quaker  brethren  eyed 
him  with  disfavor  and  the  sisters  with  disgust.  He  was 
beyond  these  things  forever ;  the  whole  force  of  his 
nature,  free  for  the  first  time,  flowed  on  with  abounding 
exultation  through  a  land  goodly  as  Eden.  The  very 
weaknesses  and  wants  of  his  wife  opened  strange  springs 
of  tenderness  within  him,  a  pain  of  pity  and  love,  a  very 
passion  of  devotion,  that  lapped  her  in  a  care  and  in 
dulgence  so  great  and  so  infinite  in  detail  that  sh-s 
thrived  as  a  rose  does,  long  prisoned  in  a  cellar,  when 
the  spring  sunshine  and  the  fervent  air  at  last  bathe 
and  caress  it,  and  draw  forth  verdant  leaves,  abundant 
buds,  and  fragrant  opening  blossoms.  Nothing  that 
his  hands  could  do  or  his  money  buy  failed  to  be  lav 
ished  on  Nelly ;  a  long  kiss,  a  love-look  from  those 


144  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

lovely  eyes,  a  happy  sigh,  more  than  repaid  him  ;  and 
when  in  the  early  winter  his  house  was  finished  and 
furnished,  by  Nelly's  experience  in  observation  and  his 
own  native  taste,  with  all  the  soft,  bright  stuffs  and 
luxurious  furniture  his  purse  could  command,  though, 
in  obedience  to  his  early  training,  no  pictures  adorned 
the  tinted  walls,  and  no  musical  instruments  tempted 
Nelly's  little  fingers,  there  was  not  so  pleasant  a  house 
in  the  country  as  Moses  D3-er's. 

Pictures,  indeed,  were  needless  ;  the  house  stood  on  a 
slight  rise  of  ground,  in  the  midst  of  a  green  field  itself 
high  above  the  road  through  Dorset,  and  every  window 
showed  a  landscape  be3'ond  the  genius  of  man  to  repro 
duce.  White  Mountain  rose  fair  and  mighty  to  the 
east,  clothed  with  foliage  to  the  foot  of  the  great  lime 
stone  rock  on  its  summit ;  to  the  north  the  picturesque 
old  mill  and  flashing  river  met  the  eye  ;  southward  lay 
the  lovely  Dorset  valley,  with  Equinox  Mountain  on 
the  right ;  and  westward  the  Ledge,  an  abrupt  preci 
pice  fringed  with  cedars,  hung  over  the  placid  waters 
of  Bright  Lake.  What  more  could  one  ask  for  the 
delight  of  the  eye  than  all  this  changing  loveliness  ? 

So  the  winter  went  on  for  these  lovers  in  a  fulness 
of  bliss  such  as  love  only  knows,  a  surfeit  of  happiness 
that  of  its  own  fulness  grows  precarious  in  its  hold, 
and  Moses  began  to  fear  the  tender  promise  of  the 
future,  which  dropped  Nelly's  white  lids  and  added  a 
soft  pallor  to  her  hitherto  blooming  face,  might  be 
only  a  blow  of  fate  in  store  for  him.  It  is  the  iron}' 
of  life  that  our  purest  bliss  frightens  us,  so  weak  are 
we  in  joy,  so  distrustful  of  God,  while  sorrow  arms  us 
with  sharp  weapons  and  drives  us  into  the  lists. 

The  first  hot  days  of  May  came  in  about  its  second 


DOOM  AND  DAN.  145 

week,  and  ended  in  a  furious  thunder-storm ;  hail 
rushed  down  from  the  lurid  cloud  that  hung  over 
Dorset,  though  the  Mill  farm  only  received  the  edge  of 
the  tempest  and  escaped  the  broken  windows  of  the 
village  ;  but  while  the  rain  was  at  its  fiercest  a  bolt  sped 
from  the  blackness  above,  and  in  one  moment  Moses 
Dyer's  barn  burst  into  quivering  flame.  Nelly  had 
hidden  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and  his  arms  were 
clasped  about  her  when  the  clap  came,  and  with  a 
stifled  shriek  she  fainted  and  slipped  from  his  hold  to 
the  floor.  Little  did  he  care  for  the  howling  storm  or 
blazing  barn.  He  laid  her  gently  on  the  sofa,  called 
Amanda,  the  hired  girl,  a  stout  and  faithful  Yankee, 
from  the  kitchen,  and,  catching  his  horse,  fortunately 
for  him  at  pasture  in  the  home  lot,  he  rode  right  out, 
through  hail  and  rain,  after  the  Dorset  doctor. 

"  Let  it  blaze  !  "  he  said  to  hurrying  neighbors  who 
met  him,  on  their  way  to  save  the  barn  or  see  it  burn  ; 
"  my  wife's  dying!" 

Astounded  neighbors !  Not  a  man  of  them  all  but 
would  have  left  wife  or  child  at  the  last  gasp  to  save 
their  own  barns.  They  stared  and  laughed,  and  stood 
about  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets  till  the  last 
rafter  tumbled  in.  But  Nelly  was  not  dying  ;  she  had 
fainted,  and  the  shock  had  somewhat  hastened  im 
pending  events.  Before  morning  a  stout,  hearty  baby 
lay  in  her  bosom,  and  she  smiled  faintly  as  Moses  bent 
over  her,  not  at  all  to  see  the  child,  who  was  an  atom 
in  the  balance  compared  with  Nelly,  but  to  assure  him 
self  that  his  wife  lived  and  loved  still. 

Things  went  on  smoothly  again,  now.  Nelly  and  the 
baby  grew  and  strengthened  daily  ;  soon  she  was  about 
again,  crooning  sleep  songs  to  her  dark-eyed  daughter, 


146  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

the  very  image  of  Moses,  if,  indeed,  one  could  imagine 
him  in  long  white  frock  and  pink  ribbons ;  making 
dainty  garments  for  her  live  doll ;  waiting  for  Moses 
at  the  window  with  baby  in  her  arms,  or  drawing 
the  child  about  the  garden  after  the  dews  were 
dried. 

So  summer  passed ;  the  new  barn  was  filled  with 
hay,  two  good  horses  put  in  the  ample  stables,  and 
Tulip,  the  black  cow,  was  munching  a  forkful  of  ha}-, 
one  September  day  just  at  twilight,  when  another  storm 
came  hurrying  up,  and  another  bolt  fell  and  lit  up  the 
new  barn  with  destroying  blaze. 

This  time  the  loss  was  heavier  far ;  but  Moses  could 
bear  it,  his  worldly  goods  had  increased ;  and  he  only 
thanked  God  that  the  house  had  not  been  struck,  built 
his  new  barn  on  the  other  side  of  the  rise  where  it  first 
stood,  a  good  deal  lower  down,  and  took  up  his  life 
where  it  was  before,  a  daily  round  of  accustomed  hap 
piness  and  prosperit}'.  Summer  came  again,  and  in 
July  another  child  entered  this  twice-blessed  family, 
this  time  a  boy.  Little  Love,  the  dark-eyed  baby,  had 
been  sent  to  Dr.  Strong's  for  a  while,  till  Nelly  could 
bear  the  burden  of  two  babies  in  the  house  a  little 
better,  and  one  morning  the  nurse  rose  early  to  make 
some  posset  for  the  child  who  had  cried  too  much 
through  the  night.  As  she  went  out  from  the  down 
stairs  bedroom  into  the  hall  a  low  growl  of  thunder 
met  her  ear,  and,  looking  from  the  window  of  the 
kitchen,  she  saw  a  low  and  lurid  cloud  hanging  above 
the  Ledge,  —  a  cloud  so  peculiar  in  its  greenish  dark 
ness  that  she  always  remembered  it ;  but  Dorset  people 
are  used  to  thunder  in  summer,  and  Aunt  Nancy  went  on 
to  make  her  mess  at  the  kitchen  stove  where  she  had 


DOOM  AND   DAN.  147 

kindled  a  fire,  not  at  all  observant  of  the  rapidly  ris 
ing  gloom. 

"  Is  there  going  to  be  a  storm  ?  "  said  Nelly,  as  the 
nurse  came  back. 

"Looks  mighty  like  it!"  said  the  woman.  "I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  we  ketched  a  smart  rain-spell ; 
you  know  the  say  in',  — 

"  '  Thunder  in  the  mornin', 
Sailors  take  warnin'  ! ' " 

"Oh,  dear!  just  hear  that!"  said  the  poor  little 
mother,  clasping  her  baby  to  her  bosom,  as  a  low,  deep 
growl  smote  the  air,  heavy  and  threatening  as  a  menace 
of  battle  among  the  Powers  of  air. 

"Please,  Aunt  Nancy,  go  and  fetch  Moses,  I'm  so 
scared  with  thunder.  I  guess  he's  gone  to  the  barn  to 
turn  out  the  stock.  I  heard  him  come  down  before 
you  went  into  the  kitchen." 

"  Wh}r,  you  blessed  creetur !  you  aint  afeared,  be 
you  ?  I  never  did  !  Shan't  I  set  on  the  bed  besides  of 
ye  ?  He'll  be  in  in  a  minnit !  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  no  !  Do  call  Moses  !  "  said  the  trembling, 
terrified  Nelly  ;  "  he  always  comes  when  I'm  scared  ; " 
and  the  good-natured  old  woman  flung  a  shawl  over 
her  head  and  trotted  out  to  the  barn,  where  Moses  had 
just  unfastened  the  stanchions  and  driven  out  the  last  of 
his  cows ;  the  horses  were  already  flying  across  the 
pasture,  wild  with  sudden  freedom  and  the  roaring 
storm. 

Moses  scarce  stayed  to  shut  the  door,  but  hastened 
toward  the  house,  with  the  woman  at  his  heels,  when  a 
flash  of  supernal  light  blazed  in  their  faces,  and  a  sim 
ultaneous  roar,  as  if  heaven  and  earth  were  rent 


148  THE   SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

asunder,  stunned  their  ears.  Alas !  it  had  severed 
heaven  from  earth  for  Moses  Dyer.  When,  blinded 
and  reeling,  he  staggered  through  the  house,  now 
full  of  smoke  and  hissing  with  fire,  he  beheld  the 
blackened  corpses  of  wife  and  child  stretched  on  their 
flaming  bed,  and  fell  senseless.  If  the  nurse  had  not 
followed  closely,  and  been  a  gaunt  and  powerful  woman, 
he  would  have  perished  with  them  ;  but,  in  the  strength 
of  desperation,  she  pulled  him  out  of  a  near  door  into 
the  yard,  and  the  man  at  the  mill  came  hurrying  and 
breathless  in  time  to  help  her  place  him  out  of  reach  of 
the  falling  timbers.  When  Moses  Dyer  awoke  from 
that  long  unconsciousness,  wife,  child,  house,  were  all 
in  ashes.  For  weeks  and  months  he  was  incapable  of 
business ;  his  heart  was  broken  as  far  as  a  strong 
man's  heart  can  be.  That  full  and  rapturous  life  that 
had  satisfied  his  soul  was  suddenly  ended  ;  he  stood 
like  a  man  who  sees  the  verdurous  and  waving  moun 
tain-side  open  at  his  feet  and  thunder  into  the  valley, 
leaving  him  alone  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice  whose 
front  is  ruin,  whose  outlook  despair. 

It  was  a  long  year  before  he  could  do  anything  at 
the  mill ;  happily  for  him  he  had  a  trustworthy  man 
there,  who  could  supervise  the  business  and,  with  a 
little  help,  carry  it  on.  Moses,  from  sheer  force  of 
habit,  fed  his  "creatures,"  slept  in  his  barn  on  the 
old  hay,  took  his  rare  meals  at  the  village  tavern,  and 
never  went  near  his  child,  who  seemed  to  be  forgotten. 
Dr.  Strong's  wife,  however,  was  glad  to  shelter  the 
little  creature,  knowing  well  that  time  would  awaken 
her  father's  affection  at  last,  knowing,  also,  that  he  was 
incapable  now  of  caring  for  such  a  mere  baby. 

But  time  went  on,  and  all  that  seemed  to  interest 


DOOM  AND   DAN.  149 

Moses  Dyer  was  his  daily  pacing  about  the  ruins  of  his 
home  ;  so  complete  had  been  the  consuming  power  of 
the  flames  that  not  a  trace  of  the  mother  or  child  had 
remained  ;  a  heap  of  ashes  only  lay  in  that  crumbling 
cellar,  and  these  he  had  gathered  reverently  and  with 
his  own  hands  into  a  coffin,  and  buried  beside  the 
green  mounds  where  his  parents  lay.  Gloomy,  dark, 
speechless,  he  went  his  way,  and  the  first  thing  that 
aroused  him  was  a  whisper  in  the  village,  he  overheard 
accidentally,  to  the  effect  that  his  house  was  doomed. 
This  curled  his  lip  with  a  sneer.  Moses  Dyer  did  not 
believe  in  fate ;  in  all  his  woful  trouble  he  still  be 
lieved  that  God  sent  it,  but  he  was  furiously  angry 
with  him  for  the  infliction. 

He  had  been  somewhat  roused  by  the  scorn  the 
village  belief  awakened  in  him,  when  the  Meeting  in 
Rutland  thought  fit  to  send  one  of  the  brethren  to  deal 
with  him,  to  restore  him  if  possible,  but  at  any  rate  to 
strive  with  him  for  his  good. 

Barzillai  Guest  accordingly  sought  him  out  one 
wintry  morning  in  the  second  November  after  Nelly's 
death,  and,  being  a  simple,  conceited,  moderate  sort  of 
man,  delivered  to  the  silent  Moses  quite  a  little  address 
on  his  sin  in  marrying  out  of  Meeting,  and  the  evident 
judgment  of  God  for  such  sin  displayed  in  the  repeated 
strokes  he  had  experienced  ;  ending  with  what  Barzillai 
thought  an  affecting  appeal  to  him  to  repent  and  return 
into  the  arms  of  Meeting  again. 

Moses  Dj-er's  face  blackened  ominously. 

"  Stop  right  there  !  Friend  Guest,"  he  said.  "Thee 
has  said  a  plenty.  Shall  I  repent  that  I  married  my 
wife?  Not  if  the  heavens  fall  upon  me  now  and  here  ! 
If,  as  thee  says,  it  is  a  judgment  upon  me  that  fire 


150  THE  SPHINX'S    CHILDREN. 

carne  down  and  consumed  my  life,  it  is  well :  does  thee 
think  I  put  faith  in  any  God  who  so  judged  me  for  lov 
ing  my  wife  ?  If  it  is  the  voice  of  the  Meeting  that  I 
have  been  a  sinner  above  all  other  sinners,  then  I  hold 
no  longer  with  Meeting.  Thee  says  I  am  judged  ;  the 
fools  in  the  village  say  my  house  was  doomed.  Does 
thee  know  I  have  got  a  living  child  —  money  in  the 
bank  —  and  a  goodly  farm  ?  Thee  can  go  back  to  Meet 
ing,  and  say  I  do  not  repent  of  my  life.  I  did  well  to 
love  my  wife.  I  do  well  to  be  angry  with  that  Power 
which  blasted  my  life.  And  while  life  lasts,  such  as  it 
is,  I  will  never  hold  with  men  that  suffer  such  talk.  I 
had  rather  be  of  this  world,  since  thee  believes  the  next 
is  so  hard  upon  me.  I  will  build  my  house  over  again, 
and  fetch  my  child  back,  and  till  my  ground  till  it  be 
time  to  die." 

Friend  Guest  reported  Moses  Dyer  to  be  a  hardened 
and  irreclaimable  brother,  and  the  Meeting  meddled 
with  him  no  more.  He  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and 
before  another  year  was  over  a  new  house,  as  like  the 
first  in  every  detail  as  his  memory  could  reproduce  it, 
rose  in  place  of  the  other ;  but  long  before  it  could  be 
furnished,  even  while  the  plaster  was  wet  on  the  walls, 
another  bolt  pierced  the  roof  and  floors  ;  but,  owing  to 
the  heav}r  rain  and  the  open  condition  of  the  building, 
that  admitted  it  freely  as  it  drove  through  unglazed 
windows  and  gaping  door-frames,  the  boards  were  only 
shattered  and  scorched,  and  with  grim  resolution 
Moses  had  them  replaced  and  went  on  to  complete  the 
structure. 

In  vain  the  carpenters  remonstrated. 

"  Do  you  think  the  lightnin'  strikes  three  times  in 
one  spot?  Go  on  with  your  work,  the  risk  is  mine.  I 


DOOM  AND  DAN.  151 

take  it ! "  he  answered,  words  long  remembered  in 
Dorset. 

However  the  house  was  safely  finished,  and  when  it 
was  ready  for  habitation  Moses  chose  for  his  own 
occupation  the  lower  bedroom,  and  recalled  his  child,  a 
rosy,  grave,  intelligent  little  maid  of  four.  It  was 
difficult  to  get  a  house-keeper,  for  everybody  in  Dorset 
knew  the  Dyer  place  was  doomed,  and  no  woman  from 
the  village  would  think  of  living  there ;  but  at  last 
Moses  found  a  widow  in  Rutland,  who  came  the  more 
willingly  because  she  was  poor,  and  not  strong  enough 
for  factory  work  or  sewing. 

For  two  or  three  years  there  was  peace  in  the  new 
house,  if  not  happiness.  Time  had  its  healing  effect  on 
Moses  Dyer,  as  it  has  on  all  of  us  ;  he  even  took  a  sort 
of  grievous  pleasure  when  he  shut  the  bedroom  door 
on  himself  at  night  in  recalling  the  gentle  creature  who 
dwelt  in  that  room  before.  He  longed  with  the  awful 
hunger  of  loss  for  one  touch  of  her  lips,  one  look  from 
her  tender  eyes  ;  and,  so  far  from  being  terrified  at  the 
idea  of  her  returning  spirit,  he  would  have  given  his 
life  to  have  even  her  phantom  semblance  hovering 
about  his  pillow.  The  only  sign  of  weakness  he  showed 
was  his  extreme  nervous  excitement  in  thunder-storms, 
a  thing  not  to  be  wondered  at  after  his  past  experience  ; 
for  other  people  still  felt  an  unwillingness  to  take 
shelter  in  the  Dyer  house  during  such  storms,  however 
drenched  they  might  become  before  reaching  the  village. 
It  was  only  after  three  years  had  elapsed  with  no  acci 
dent  of  the  sort  that  Lemuel  Hough,  who  was  the  mill 
man,  consented  to  board  at  Moses  Dyer's,  though 
Moses  himself  urged  it,  not  only  as  a  matter  of  econ 
omy,  but  with  an  unconfessed  feeling  of  anxiety  lest 


152  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

something  should  again  happen  and  he  be  helpless  as 
before. 

Love  was  eight  }-ears  old,  and  had  grown  to  be  the 
only  dear  thing  on  earth  to  her  father,  and  Lena  had 
lived  in  the  house  about  a  year,  when,  one  October 
night,  after  a  day  sultry  as  in  August,  a  violent  storm 
came  up  suddenly  while  all  the  inmates  of  the  Dyer 
house  were  sound  asleep.  Love  was  upstairs  in  a 
room  next  to  Hannah  Smith's ;  Lem  in  the  back- 
chamber,  whose  window  opened  out  on  a  shed  roof, 
and  Moses,  as  usual,  downstairs.  A  simultaneous 
crack  and  blaze  aroused  them,  and  smoke  rapidly  filled 
the  house.  Lemuel,  who  was  a  cool-headed  Yankee, 
hurried  the  woman  and  child  through  his  room  on  to 
the  shed-roof,  from  which  they  easily  slipped  to  the 
ground,  and,  driven  by  terror,  made  their  way  to  the 
mill-shed. 

Once  having  disposed  of  them  Lemuel  went  round 
outside  to  the  bedroom  door,  and  knocked  it  inward 
with  a  heavy  beetle  fetched  from  the  wood-house. 
A  ghastly  vision  met  his  eyes  there :  Moses  Dyer  sat 
upright  in  his  bed,  staring  straight  before  him ;  the 
partition  opposite  burst  into  licking  tongues  of  flame 
as  the  fallen  door  admitted  air,  and  the  suffocating 
smoke  rolled  outward.  Lemuel  seized  the  stricken 
man  by  the  shoulders  and  dragged  him  from  the  bed, 
helpless  as  a  child  of  days,  right  out  into  the  pouring 
rain  ;  it  was  not  till  his  suspended  senses  returned  that 
it  was  discovered  he  was  a  helpless  cripple,  both  legs 
paralyzed  by  the  bolt  that  had  fired  the  house.  The 
red  light  of  the  fire  called  out  all  Dorset  to  help,  but 
help  was  in  vain  ;  as  the  angry  tempest  rolled  away  its 
black  hosts  to  the  southward,  and  the  tranquil  hunter's 


DOOM  AND   DAN.  153 

moon  rose  fair  and  still  above  the  crest  of  White 
Mountain,  her  light  shone  on  a  heap  of  smoking  ruins, 
a  helpless,  hopeless  man,  and  a  frightened  child  cling 
ing,  sobbing,  to  bis  neck. 

The  villagers  looked  at  one  another  with  wise  eyes 
and  nodding  heads. 

"  I  told  you  so  !  "  mumbled  old  Aunt  Nancy.  "  I 
wouldn't  ha'  gone  there  to  live  for  half  Dorset.  My 
sakes  !  he  wanted  me  to,  the  wust  kind  ;  but  money 
wouldn't  count  for  that  puppus.  It's  a  doomed  house 
if  ever  there  was  one,  and  I  guess  he'll  have  to  own 
up  to't  now,  whether  or  no  !  " 

But  it  was  a  long  time  before  Dorset  people  arrived 
at  Moses  Dyer's  thought  on  this  matter.  He  was  now 
in  a  condition  that  reversed  all  his  former  life  and  ex 
perience  ;  in  one  instant  from  the  full  strength  of 
unusually  vigorous  manhood  he  had  become  helpless  as 
a  feeble  old  man.  The  shock  to  his  whole  system  had 
been  severe,  and  for  weeks  he  lay  on  his  bed  unable 
to  lift  his  hands  or  his  head.  Gradually  strength 
came  back  so  far  that  he  could  sit  up  and  be  moved 
into  a  chair ;  but  the  best  medical  advice  in  the  country, 
called  to  his  aid  by  Dr.  Strong,  who  was  determined  to 
spare  nothing  in  his  behalf,  pronounced  the  paralysis 
of  his  lower  limbs  hopeless ;  he  might  live  for  years, 
but  he  would  never  walk  again. 

Think  what  a  doom  this  was  to  a  man  in  the  prime 
of  his  life,  accustomed  to  be  in  the  open  air  constantly, 
striding  abroad  over  his  possessions,  or  riding  up  and 
down  the  wild  mountain  roads  enjoying  every  aspect  of 
nature,  every  draught  of  the  keen,  pure  air  that  filled 
him  with  fresh  life  !  Now  he  was  to  pass  his  lingering 
existence  under  a  roof  between  four  walls ;  his  proud 


154  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

and  independent  spirit  bent  in  bitter  humiliation,  his 
purposes  broken  off,  the  only  staff  left  to  him  the  love 
of  a  child. 

At  this  juncture  Friend  Harding,  who  had  hitherto 
kept  silence  toward  Moses,  though  his  heart  ached  with 
compassionate  pity  over  all  his  trials,  stepped  forward 
to  help.  He  possessed  one  of  those  great,  old-fashioned 
houses  once  common  in  New  England,  with  four  rooms 
on  a  floor,  a  wide  hall  running  between  them  both  above 
and  below  stairs,  and  making  so  complete  a  separation 
that  often  two  families  inhabit  now  where  one  alone 
formerly  lived.  It  was  Susannah  who  planned,  and 
William  who  proposed,  that  Moses  Dyer  should  hire 
half  their  house,  which  would  accommodate  him  well 
with  Love  and  Hannah. 

Moses  considered  the  proposal  with  dim  eyes ;  he 
had  been  carried  to  the  tavern  when  he  was  first  pulled 
from  his  bed,  and  the  low,  dirty  rooms,  the  noise,  the 
vulgar  guests  who  alone  came  to  the  old  place,  made  it 
unpleasant  for  him  and  unfit  for  Love.  At  last,  as 
William  Harding  sat  waiting  for  an  answer,  a  grim 
smile  flickered  across  Moses  Dyer's  face. 

'"  Isn't  thee  afraid  the  lightning  will  follow  me, 
Friend  Harding?"  he  said. 

"  No,"  answered  William,  steadily.  "I  do  not  so 
apprehend  the  dealings  of  the  Lord.  I  think  he  is  one 
who  loveth  mercy  rather  than  judgment.  If  thee  has 
sinned,  other  men  also  have  done  the  like.  '  Suppose 
ye  that  these  Galileans  were  sinners  above  all  Gali 
leans,  because  they  suffered  such  things  ?  '  I  know  not 
why  thy  house  was  so  stricken.  '  Lo,  these  are  parts 
of  his  ways,'  only ;  I  can  trust  him  to  do  right,  Moses. 
I  think  thee  will  in  time." 


DOOM  AND   DAN.  155 

Moses  lay  back  on  his  pillow  with  a  groan.  Would 
it  ever  seem  to  him  right  that  he  was  bereaved  and 
crippled  ? 

He  did  not,  however,  dispute  the  matter  with  Friend 
Harding  ;  the  man's  calm  trust  gave  even  Moses  Dyer 
a  sort  of  awe  ;  but  he  did  accept  the  kindly  offer  of 
house-room,  and  was  glad  to  divert  Love  from  her  sad 
contemplation  of  his  helplessness  by  sending  her  to 
Rutland  with  Susannah  Harding  to  make  purchases  of 
furniture  for  the  new  dwelling ;  for,  though  his  house 
was  burnt,  he  was  still  a  rich  man,  and  the  mill  ground 
awa}7  as  merrily  as  ever  under  Lemuel's  charge.  So  it 
came  about  that  the  next  ten  years  of  Love's  life  and 
Moses  Dyer's  existence  were  spent  under  the  roof  of 
William  Harding,  and  with  Susannah's  gentle  guidance, 
added  to  such  education  as  the  village  academy 
afforded,  Love  Dyer  grew  up  into  a  beautiful,  stately 
girl,  adding  to  her  mother's  grace  her  father's  deep 
coloring  and  abundant  health.  Her  thick,  soft  hair 
crowned  a  shapely  head  with  rich  plaits  ;  her  great,  dark 
eyes,  grave  as  her  father's,  were  far  sweeter  than  his 
had  ever  been,  and  could  flash  from  their  dusky  depths 
with  fun  as  his  had  never  done  ;  her  lips  were  full  and 
red,  and  under  her  clear,  olive  skin  shone  a  crimson 
color  that  told  of  native  vigor  and  a  strong  constitu 
tion.  The  young  men  in  Dorset  had  already  found  out 
what  a  beauty  dwelt  among  them  ;  but  Moses  Dyer  was 
as  jealous  of  his  solitary  possession  as  any  father  could 
be,  and  his  post  was  always  at  the  front  window,  where 
he  could  watch  the  village  street  and  see  if  any  man 
dared  to  attend  Love's  walks  or  come  to  call  on  her. 
Ten  years  had  not  materially  altered  his  nature  ;  he 
had  grown  outwardly  more  patient,  for  habit  is  strong 


156  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

in  us,  and  the  things  that  are  inevitable  have  to  be 
accepted.  In  his  helplessness  he  had  begun  to  take  a 
sort  of  morbid  pride  ;  he  dwelt  in  thought  much  on  the 
fact,  at  last  obvious  even  to  him,  that  he  was  a  sort  of 
moral  target  for  the  arrows  of  the  Almighty.  It  was 
a  kind  of  balm  to  his  pride  to  think  he  had  been  so 
singled  out  from  his  fellows  by  a  divine  hand ;  a  cer 
tificate  of  weight  to  his  own  character  that  it  should 
need  such  special  visitations  to  be  amended.  He  took 
to  reading  the  Bible,  as  we  most  of  us  read  it, —  to  find 
his  peculiar  case  either  depicted  or  provided  for, —  and 
in  the  Old  Testament  found  ample  vindications  of  his 
theory.  He  was  almost  gratified  to  have  strangers  in 
Dorset  brought  by  the  house  where  he  now  lived,  and 
to  see  that  he  was  pointed  out  to  them  as  the  hero  of  a 
spiritual  tragedy.  The  burnt  house  on  the  farm  had 
never  been  rebuilt ;  the  barn  had  gone  with  it ;  the 
home-lot  was  a  wilderness  of  unpruned  trees  and 
neglected  grass,  and  the  garden  a  tangle  of  half -dead 
roses,  clambering  briers,  tall,  rank  yellow  lilies  and 
straggling  peonies.  The  farm  he  sold  soon  after  he 
became  unable  to  manage  it,  but  no  one  would  buy  the 
honse-site  and  the  three  acres  about  it ;  it  was  known 
all  through  Dorset  as  the  Doomed  House,  and  not  a 
man  in  the  township  would  have  taken  it  for  a  gift  if  a 
palace  had  been  erected  there,  and  the  gift  been  con 
ditioned  with  its  use  as  a  residence. 

His  life  from  day  to  day  had  only  the  alleviations  of 
this  conscious  dignity  and  the  affection  which  Love 
showered  upon  him.  She  superintended  his  comfort 
in  every  way ;  read  to  him,  sang  to  him,  waited  on 
him,  and  sat  at  his  bedside  every  night  till  he  slept ;  for 
his  nervous  system  seemed  to  have  been  startled  into 


DOOM  AND   DAN.  157 

abnormal  vivacity  of  action  by  the  very  shock  that 
paralyzed  him  physically.  Under  the  sweet  influences 
of  Susannah  Harding,  Love  had  grown  to  be  lovely  as 
well  as  beautiful ;  she  was  like  life  and  breath  to  her 
father ;  her  tender  voice,  her  deft  fingers,  her  loving 
eyes,  were  all  that  fate  had  left  him.  He  who  had  so 
loved  every  trick  and  tracery  of  nature  was  shut  in 
now  to  the  space  of  four  walls,  the  outlook  of  a  village 
street ;  but  it  may  be  that  he  was  in  reality  more  con 
tent  than  ever  before ;  his  sense  of  personal  dignity 
was  increased  rather  than  diminished,  and  a  certain 
regal  consciousness  attached  itself  to  his  isolation  and 
its  one  ministering  spirit. 

However,  Moses  Dyer  had  not  yet  learned  his  lesson. 
"When  Love  was  about  eighteen  Lemuel  Hough  took  it 
into  his  head  to  emigrate  to  California,  and  among  the 
candidates  for  his  place  in  the  mill  there  appeared  a 
far-away  cousin  of  the  Dyer  tribe,  from  Connecticut, 
Daniel  Dyer,  a  young  fellow  of  the  best  Yankee  type. 
Cool-headed,  energetic,  cheerful,  with  a  certain  audac 
ity  that  gave  force  to  his  energy,  he  was  one  of  those 
people  who  never  expect  to  fail,  and,  for  that  very  rea 
son,  always  succeed.  His  honest,  resolute  face,  not  quite 
handsome,  yet  what  all  Dorset  called  "  good-looking," 
prepossessed  Moses  Dyer  in  his  favor;  those  keen, 
gray  eyes  were  hawk-like  in  their  outlook,  and  the 
crisp,  light  curls  above  them  gave  a  sort  of  character  to 
the  square  forehead,  that  might  have  been  too  solid  but 
for  this  ornamentation,  which  meant  quick  temper,  and 
implied  fire  behind  the  machine. 

Moses  Dyer  was  not  a  physiognomist,  consciously, 
but  he  could  give  no  better  reason  for  selecting  this 
man  to  run  his  mill  than  that  he  liked  his  looks. 


158  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

Others  had  as  good  recommendations ;  some  he  knew 
from  childhood  ;  but  he  "  took  "  to  Dan  Dyer  at  once, 
and  when  Lemuel  Hough  went  away  from  Dorset  he 
left  behind  him  a  substitute  whom  men  allowed  very 
soon  more  than  filled  his  place. 

Everybodj-  liked  the  new-comer  ;  he  had  a  kind  word, 
a  hearty  greeting,  a  joke  for  everybody.  He  was  as 
eager  at  his  work  as  a  boy  at  play,  but  equally  ready 
for  play  in  its  time.  Nobody  could  husk  as  much  corn 
or  pare  as  many  apples  at  bees  as  Dan  Dyer,  and 
nobody  could  tell  such  funny  stories.  He  sang  a  fine 
tenor,  and  installed  himself  in  the  village  choir  at  once, 
becoming  its  chorister  before  the  year  was  out,  and 
drilling  that  somewhat  idle  and  desultory  group  of 
singers  into  the  best  choir  of  the  county.  He  skated 
as  if  skates  had  grown  on  his  feet  from  bis  birth, 
and  fished  great  trout  out  of  brooks  in  which  nobody 
else  had  ever  discovered  a  fin  of  that  sort ;  and,  above 
all,  he  made  some  wonderful  improvement  in  the  mill 
machinery  that  brought  him  into  frequent  association 
with  the  mill-owner,  and  crowned  all  his  well-doing 
with  one  great  folly  ;  for  the  poor  fellow  fell  over  head 
and  ears  in  love  with  Love  Dyer  ! 

And  Love,  brought  for  the  first  time  into  contact 
with  a  nature  at  once  sunny,  fearless,  and  victorious, 
—  what  other  result  could  be  expected  than  that  she 
should  strike  her  colors  directly? 

Her  education  had  been  such  as  to  make  her  simple 
in  heart  and  life,  with  that  simplicity  Fenelon  paints 
and  praises ;  she  had  lived  under  the  shadow  of  a 
cloud  all  her  days,  and  here  was  pure  sunshine  ;  why 
should  she  not  open  her  heart  to  it  ?  Dan  Dyer  came 
and  went  day  after  day,  in  and  out  of  Moses  Dyer's 


DOOM  AND  DAN.  159 

room,  talking  of  cogs  and  bands  and  bolt-cloths,  of 
wheels  and  buckets,  beams  to  be  renewed,  floors  to  re 
pair,  trap-doors  to  be  put  here  and  a  shoot  to  be  built 
there ;  but  all  the  time  he  talked  he  saw  Love's  soft, 
dark  eyes  and  beautiful  face  instead  of  her  father's 
grim  visage  and  gray  locks,  and  she  sat  by  in  breath 
less  interest.  If  he  had  talked  of  Sanscrit  verbs  or 
Hebrew  points  it  would  have  interested  her  as  much, 
for  his  voice  had  a  speech  of  its  own  older  than  the 
confusion  of  tongues,  and  his  face  a  legend  open  as  the 
stars  in  heaven.  Yet  it  was  a  great  while  before 
Moses  Dyer's  eyes  were  opened  to  the  fact  which  every 
woman  in  Dorset  knew  long  ago  ;  which  Love's  mother, 
had  she  lived,  would  have  known  before  the  lovers 
knew  it ;  but,  to  Moses  Dyer,  Love  was  still  a  child, 
and  his  wrath  was  full  of  contempt  when  Hannah,  with 
the  conscious  smirk  of  a  willing  gossip,  hinted  one  day, 
when  Love  had  gone  out,  "  That  there  Dan  Dyer  sets 
a  heap  by  Lovey,  don't  he?" 

"  Thee  is  a  fool,  Hannah  !  "  sharply  answered  Moses, 
his  face  darkening  as  he  spoke. 

"  Be  I?"  she  snapped  back  ;  "  then  Dorset's  full  on 
'em  ;  everybody's  a-snickerin'  V  a-giggliu'  about  it,  all 
over.  I  should  ha'  thought  your  eyes  would  ha'  seen 
what  was  right  afore  'em.  I  shouldn't  ha'  peeped  nor 
muttered  about  it  if  I  hedn't  supposed  you  was  privy 
to't  quite  a  spell  back." 

"What  does  thee  mean,  woman?  Can't  thee  curb 
thy  silly  tongue  better  than  this?  Love  is  a  child; 
does  thee  think  a  grown  man,  with  his  head  full  of 
wheels  and  such  like,  has  it  turned  after  little  girls?  " 
And  yet  as  he  spoke  he  remembered  how  long  he 
had  watched  Love's  comings  and  goings  from  his 


160  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

front  window  lest  some  such  catastrophe  should  hap 
pen. 

"  Well,  I  don't  call  nineteen  year  old  no  child's 
age!"  sniffed  Hannah.  "Fust  you  know  you'll  lose 
her  slap  off,'  n'  then  I  guess  you'll  sorter  figger  up 
better  on  folkses  age  !  " 

Moses  Dyer  groaned ;  he  was  inwardly  furious,  and 
now  that  his  eyes  were  opened  a  thousand  tiny  recollec 
tions  pressed  upon  him,  driving  the  unwelcome  truth 
home.  Why  had  Dan  come  in  so  unnecessarily  often 
to  consult  him  on  the  most  trivial  matters?  Why  had 
Love  always  stayed  by  and  seemed  so  interested  in  the 
mill  business?  How  she  lingered  of  late  in  her  daily 
walks,  and  brought  home  ferns,  mosses,  and  berries, 
that  grew  only  on  the  river  edges  !  Well,  he  would 
put  an  end  to  it  at  once ;  that  was  all.  Dan  was 
coming  up  to-night ;  there  were  plain  words  enough  in 
the  English  language,  and  he  would  not  spare  them. 
But  to  Love  when  she  came  in,  blooming,  yet  pensive, 
her  hands  full  of  the  pink  arbutus  blossoms  that  grew 
so  rosy  only  on  that  pine-shaded  bank  just  below  the 
mill,  he  said  nothing,  only  just  before  Dan  appeared 
he  asked  her  gently  to  go  in  and  sit  a  while  with  Su 
sannah,  for  he  had  private  business  that  evening  with 
a  visitor. 

Dan  came  in  whistling,  his  face  alight  and  his  heart 
buoyant ;  but  Moses  was  like  a  black  bar  of  thunder 
cloud.  Scarcely  was  the  guest  seated  before  his  host 
accused  him  in  no  measured  terms  of  coming  there  on 
false  pretences,  to  ensnare  his  daughter's  heart  and 
beguile  her  away. 

"You  Ihink  I  come  here  like  a  sneak,  do  you?" 
retorted  Dan,  his  eyes  glowing;  "you  know  better 


DOOM  AND  DAN.  1G1 

than  that,  Moses  Dyer !  You  know  I've  had  reg'lar 
business  every  time  ;  if  you  say  to  the  contrary,  why, 
then  you  say  what  aint  so.  As  for  your  girl"  —  and 
here  his  voice  fell —  "  I  don't  deny  but  what  I  think  a 
heap  of  her  ;  why  shouldn't  I  ?  She's  as  han'some  as  a 
picture  and  as  good  as  gold  !  "Why  shouldn't  I  like  her? 
Wa'n't  you  never  young  yourself?" 

Moses  put  out  his  hand  to  check  him,  for  he  could 
not  speak  ;  there  rose  up  before  him  that  rock  by  the 
river-side,  the  fair,  young  face,  the  glittering  hair,  and 
then  the  short  years  of  rapture  ;  it  almost  seemed  to 
him  for  a  moment  that  those  clinging  arms  were  about 
his  neck  once  more,  those  fragrant  lips  pressed  to  his, 
those  tender  eyes  looking  up  to  him  as  a  bird  from  its 
nest  looks  to  the  sky.  His  face  darkened  with  emotion. 
Dan  saw  his  opportunity  and  went  on  :  — 

"  Yes,  I  do  love  her ;  more'n  tongue  can  tell,  I  love 
her.  If  I  aint  good  enough  for  her  I  know  it  jest  as 
well  as  you  do,  but  I  don't  know  anybody  that  is  ;  and 
I  expect  I  love  her  enough  to  make  up  the  goodness 
that's  wanting.  I  haven't  never  spoke  one  word  to  her 
about  the  matter,  for  I  wa'n't  ready  to,  not  yet.  But  I 
tell  you,  Squire  Dyer,  I  mean  to  marry  her,  whether  or 
no!" 

There  was  something  about  Dan's  very  frank  speech 
that  touched  a  kindred  chord  in  the  old  man  ;  this  de 
termination  was  an  echo  of  his  own  nature,  yet  all  the 
more  for  that  it  enraged  him. 

"Thee  is  a  presumptuous  fool,  Daniel  Dyer!"  he 
answered.  "Does  thee  think  nothing  of  taking  my 
girl  into  poverty,  —  she  that  has  known  no  want  of  this 
world's  goods  in  all  her  life  ?  " 

"  Squire,  I  aiut  one  of  the  poor  sort !    I  own  up  that 


162  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

I  haint  got  no  great  of  cash  in  hand  now,  but  I've  got 
my  health,  and  I'm  strong,  and  I  aint  no  fool,  if  you  do 
say  so  ;  but  I'm  willing  to  overlook  that,  for  I  see  you're 
riled  a  mite.  No,  sir !  If  I  live,  I'll  be  the  best-off 
man  in  Dorset,  and  if  Love  is  willing  to  take  me  she 
won't  ever  want  for  a  thing,  I  say  for't !  " 

Moses  Dyer  began  to  feel  cowed  by  this  persistent 
audacity ;  he  fell  back  on  his  rights. 

"Thee  does  not  know  my  daughter  ;  she  is  a  dutiful 
child.  Thee  could  not  persuade  her  to  leave  her  father 
contrary  to  his  wish." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,  Squire  Dyer.  "Women 
folks  are  kind  of  queer  ;  they'll  mostly  foller  their  incli 
nations,  I've  observed."  There  was  an  exasperating 
truth  in  this  statement  that  crushed  Moses. 

"What  does  thee  want  to  come  here  and  take  her 
away  for?  "  he  cried,  in  sudden  grief, —  "  all  that  is  left 
to  me,  a  man  doomed  to  suffer  from  the  arrows  of  the 
Almighty  ?  Does  thee  think  I  will  spare  my  ewe-lamb 
to  such  as  thee?" 

"  I  wouldn't  take  her  away  from  you  for  nothing," 
generously  exclaimed  Dan.  "You  have  had  a  lot  of 
affliction,  and  you  aint  like  to  be  any  smarter  nor  any 
chircker  than  you  be  now ;  rather  the  contrary,  I  ex 
pect  ;  and  I'd  take  care  of  you  myself  as  good  as  she 
can.  I'd  be  helpful  as  though  I  belonged  to  you, 
Squire.  You'd  get  a  son  and  you  wouldn't  lose  your 
daughter." 

Sublime  egotism  of  youth  and  passion  !  But  it  had  no 
sublime  effect  on  Moses  Dyer.  Trembling  with  passion 
he  leaned  forward  in  his  chair. 

"  Look  here,  young  man,"  he  said,  in  a  broken  voice  ; 
"  thee  drives  me  to  the  edge.  Love  Dyer  shall  never 


DOOM  AND  DAN.  163 

marry  thee  till  thee  can  give  her  a  good  home  and 
twenty  thousand  dollars  in  the  bank.  Thee  has  got  no 
feelings  I  can  move.  I  shall  try  the  facts  of  filth}7 
lucre  ;  may  be  thy  pocket  will  comprehend.  I  will 
drive  the  girl  out  from  before  my  face  to  starve  if  she 
dares  to  many  thee  before  I  say  Amen.  Yea,  I  will 
curse  her  as  the  Lord  hath  cursed  me  for  my  sin  ! " 

Dan  looked  at  the  old  man  steadily.  "  I'll  take  you 
up  at  that,  Squire  Dyer.  I'll  engage,  swear  to't  if 
you  say  so,  never  to  ask  her  till  I've  got  that  amount." 

Moses  Dyer  stared.  "Was  this  fellow  crazy?  At 
any  rate,  in  or  out  of  his  senses,  the  agreement  would 
keep  him  away  from  Love  ;  so  they  struck  hands  on  it, 
and  from  that  time  on  Dan's  visits  ceased  at  the  Hard 
ing  house,  and  though  Love's  fresh  color  paled,  her 
eyes  grew  sad,  and  her  voice  plaintive  rather  than  gay, 
with  the  bitter  selfishness  of  age  and  his  nature  Moses 
Dyer  did  not  relent.  He  would  not  spare  Love  to 
her  lover,  for  her  own  pleasure  or  peace,  because  he 
wanted  her  care,  her  tendance,  her  affection,  all  for 
himself ! 

Hannah,  in  the  next  room,  had  overheard  all  this 
interview,  and  her  tongue  was  never  tied.  Dorset 
people  were  soon  possessed  of  the  situation,  and  with 
one  accord  pitied  the  lovers  and  blamed  the  cruel 
father ;  but  pity  did  not  console  Love,  and  Dan's 
brain  seemed  to  be  suddenly  turned,  for  early  the  next 
autumn  it  was  declared  by  the  wise  ones  of  the  town 
that  he  had  bought  the  old  ruins  of  the  Dyer  house, 
the  home- lot,  and  all  of  the  farm,  about  ten  acres, 
lying  between  the  house  and  the  mill. 

Nobody  believed  it  at  first,  for  that  land  had  been  a 
drug  in  the  market,  owing  to  its  past  history  as  well  as 


164  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

to  the  fact  that  more  than  once  since  the  last  catas 
trophe  somebody  or  other  had  seen  lightning  strike  on 
that  knoll,  though  nothing  stood  there  capable  of 
injury.  But  examination  of  recent  records  showed  the 
tale  to  be  true  ;  the  land  had  sold  for  a  song,  or  at  least 
for  a  note,  and  that  only  two  hundred  dollars  ;  and 
soon  Dan  left  the  mill,  hired  a  man  to  help  him,  and  began 
to  clear  out  the  cellar  of  its  rubbish.  Even  Moses  Dyer 
was  full  of  astonishment  and  a  sort  of  horror  ;  it  seemed 
to  him  he  ought  to  warn  any  man  who  tried  to  rebuild 
that  house  of  its  doom  and  its  past  experience ;  but  he 
knew  Dan  must  be  aware  of  this,  and  as  days  went  on 
and  no  frame  was  set  up,  but  certain  strange  men  with 
little  bags  and  small  hammers  came  to  Dorset,  visited 
that  cellar,  and  went  away  smiling,  Dorset  people 
were  more  and  more  perplexed.  Before  winter  set  in 
Dan  had  put  up  a  shanty  in  the  home-lot,  and  heaps 
of  earth,  like  the  preparations  for  a  railway  embank 
ment,  lay  piled  all  about  the  old  cellar.  The  mystery 
leaked  out  at  last.  Under  the  Dyer  house  had  lain  a 
mine  of  the  best  sort  of  iron  ;  wide  and  deep,  it  had 
attracted  the  electric  fluid  with  compelling  force,  and 
the  shrewd  sense  of  one  Yankee,  who,  looking  at  the 
events  which  other  people  called  Fate,  had  used  his 
reason,  had  found  only  a  propitious  Fact. 

Certain  capitalists  were  found  ready  and  willing  to 
help  Dan  Dyer  forward  in  his  work  of  mining  and 
smelting,  for  the  ore  was  extremely  valuable,  and 
instead  of  lying  in  a  "  pocket,"  as  much  of  the  Vermont 
ore  does,  proved  to  be  a  solid  vein.  A  great  furnace 
was  erected  on  the  river  bank,  and  lit  up  the  water 
with  savage  glow  by  night,  sending  wreaths  of  smoke 
into  the  keen  air  by  day,  and  Dan  Dyer  ruled  over  the 


DOOM  AND  DAN.  165 

fiery  confusion  within,  exultant  and  happ}' ;  for  before 
bim  lay  a  near  prospect  of  the  house  and  money  that 
should  qualify  him  for  Moses  Dyer's  daughter,  and 
Love's  shy  eyes  had  long  ago  given  him  all  the  encour 
agement  e}Tes  can  give. 

But  Moses  Dyer  underwent  a  strange  inward  expe 
rience.  Here  was  the  mystic  doom  which  had  set  him 
apart  from  and  above  his  fellows  reduced  to  a  simple 
matter  of  mineralogy.  He  thought  it  was  Providence, 
and  it  proved  to  be  iron  !  The  visitation  of  God  had 
not  humbled  him  when  he  accepted  it  as  a  visitation  ; 
but  the  facts  of  nature  did.  The  throne  of  his  spiritual 
pride  was  abased  forever,  and  he  was  only  a  man  like 
other  men  ;  rather  less  than  other  men,  in  that  he  had 
not  seen  for  himself  the  open  fact  that  electricity  is 
not  the  wrath  of  God,  but  the  law  of  nature ;  that 
lightning  does  not  strike  over  and  over  in  one  place 
without  a  reason  any  more  than  water  flows  uphill. 
He  was  helpless,  useless,  bereaved,  from  his  own  fault, 
his  defiant  pride  ;  and,  as  he  brooded  day  after  day  over 
this  new  insight  into  his  Maker  and  himself,  he  was 
forced  to  put  his  band  on  his  mouth  and  his  mouth  in 
the  dust,  recognizing  at  last  the  Father,  who  does  not 
willingly  afflict  nor  grieve  us,  but  in  wisdom,  as  well  as 
mercy,  lets  us  find  out  for  ourselves  how  good  he  is, 
how  weak  and  vain  we  are. 

The  heart  of  Moses  Dyer  melted  within  him  and  be 
came  as  the  heart  of  a  little  child.  He  sent  for  Dan, 
and  acknowledged  his  selfishness  and  his  sin. 

"  If  thee  loves  the  child,  Daniel,"  he  said,  "  I  will 
not  forbid  thee  to  strive  after  her  affections.  I  have 
been  a  self-seeker,  but  the  Lord  hath  opened  my  eyes." 


166  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

Dan's  honest  face  changed  and  his  keen  eyes  dropped 
as  he  grasped  the  old  man's  hand. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  say,  Squire  !  "  he  answered. 
"  You're  everlastin' clever  to  me.  I  do  expect  to  make 
consider'ble  more  than  twenty  thousand  out  of  that  mine, 
fust  and  last ;  but  it'll  be  quite  a  while  before  I  fetch  it, 
and  I  don't  think  a  man's  good  for  shucks  without  a 
wife  and  a  home.  Besides,  there's  Love  to  ask  yet ; 
mabbe  at  the  last  she  won't  have  me.  But  I  can  try  ; 
there's  never  any  harm  in  trying.  As  for  the  mine,  I 
kinder  suspected  there  was  a  wherefore  to  the  why  about 
those  thunder-bolts,  so  I  figured  on't.  I  haint  any  faith 
in  '  doom.'  I  b'lieve  in  the  Lord,  of  course  ;  but  I  don't 
think  he  goes  about  pitchin'  into  folks  with  lightnin' 
to  convert  'em.  I  guess  he's  converted  you  quite  re 
cent,  and  without  strikin'  of  you,  neither.  When  it 
comes  to  talkin'  about  doom  I'd  rather  b'lieve  in  Dan. 
It  works  a  heap  better  !  " 

And  Dan's  brief  creed  has  certainly  vindicated  itself, 
for  to-day  a  fair  white  house  stands  on  the  slope  of  the 
hills  just  out  of  Dorset,  and  old  Moses  Dyer,  looking 
from  its  sunny  windows  down  on  the  farm  and  the  fur 
nace  with  a  face  peaceful  as  the  autumnal  skies  above 
the  Ledge,  is  waited  on  and  caressed  by  a  trio  of  small 
Dyers,  and  guarded  from  their  somewhat  rampant  affec 
tions  by  a  gentle,  beautiful  woman,  who  is  now  and 
forever  Dan  Dyer's  Love. 


ACCOUNT  OF  THOMAS   TUCKER.  167 


SOME   ACCOUNT  OF    THOMAS 
TUCKER. 


"  Whom  now  seekinge,  O  Diogenes !  have  I  found :  ye  Sunne's  shine 
Beinge  more  Discoverable  untoe  that  whiche  is  Sunne-like,  than  Thy  poore 
Blinklnge  Lanthorne." 

—  Marriages  of  Ye  Deade. 

AMASA  TCCKER  and  his  wife  lived  on  a  lonely  farm 
in  Vermont,  remote  from  villages  or  neighbors. 
Amasa's  work  was  that  -hardest  of  all  work,  forcing 
from  rocky  and  reluctant  fields  enough  produce  to  feed 
and  clothe  his  family  ;  to  do  more,  with  the  most  stren 
uous  exertion,  was  impossible,  and  he  did  not  expect 
it.  To  him  life  was  a  brief  and  bitter  pilgrimage 
toward  heaven.  If  it  had  amenities,  they  were  snares  ; 
its  pleasures  were  unknown  to  him.  Rugged,  stern, 
hard  as  the  granite  rocks  beneath  the  sward  he  tilled, 
he  found  no  consolations  in  the  outer  world,  on  which 
he  walked  as  they  that  have  eyes  and  see  not,  ears  and 
hear  not,  nor  even  human  interests  to  cloud  their  awed 
and  reverent  look  into  the  world  which  is  to  come. 
Alone  in  his  arid  fields,  Amasa  Tucker  revolved  within 
himself  the  vast  problems  of  theology,  —  free-will, 
election,  infant  damnation,  the  origin  of  evil,  and  like 
dogmas  ;  for  to  such  thoughts  had  he  been  trained  from 
childhood  by  the  widowed  mother  who  owned  and  in 
habited  this  solitary  mountain  farm.  Duty  was  ground 
into  the  very  bone  and  sinew  of  his  life.  He  walked 


168  TEE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

always  between  a  dreadful  hell  and  an  awful  heaven, 
set  aside  from  the  ordinary  temptations  of  life,  and 
taught  to  believe  that  every  leaning  toward  transgres 
sion  was  the  whisper  of  an  omnipresent  devil,  eager  to 
enlist  him  in  his  own  service  ;  and  learning  to  feel  that 
untruth,  disobedience,  a  thought  he  could  not  utter  to 
his  mother,  or  a  wish  that  could  not  be  uplifted  to  God, 
were  crimes  of  fatal  and  total  depravity. 

He  ploughed  the  brown  sod  of  the  sad  New  England 
hills  under  the  full  force  of  the  primeval  curse  ;  uncom 
plaining,  because  Adam  had  sinned  for  him,  and  he  must 
bear  the  doom  ;  and  unquestioning,  because  Job,  under 
a  worse  pressure  of  suffering,  had  taught  him  that  he 
who  challenges  the  will  of  God  does  so  in  vain. 

He  saw  the  sun  rise  above  the  purple  mountains,  and 
wheel  its  splendid  way  through  the  sky,  life-giving  and 
wonderful,  with  only  a  sombre  thought  of  that  impend 
ing  day  when  the  sun  shall  be  turned  into  darkness  and 
the  moon  into  blood,  for  which  it  behooved  him  to  be 
ready  and  waiting.  The  melancholy  glory  of  the  moon 
and  the  keen  sparkle  of  the  starry  heavens  gave  him  no 
joy  :  their  story  was  alone  of  that  creative  and  judging 
Lord  who  should  roll  them  away  as  a  scroll.  To  him 
the  fear  of  God  was  not  only  the  beginning  of  wisdom, 
but  its  course  and  end  ;  the  perfect  love  that  casteth 
out  fear  was  strange  to  him  as  heaven  ;  he  knew  not  its 
soft  steppings  about  him,  nor  its  clear  shining  in  the 
beauty  that  beset  his  path.  He  lived  only  to  prepare 
for  death,  and  to  see  that  his  kindred  followed  in  that 
straight  way. 

Philura,  whom  he  had  married  from  a  sense  of  the  fit 
ness  of  things,  was  a  meek,  spiritless  creature,  with  no 
sentiment  and  little  feeling  ;  always  conscious  that  she 


ACCOUNT  OF  THOMAS   TUCKER.  169 

was  an  unprofitable  servant,  afraid  to  love  her  children 
lest  it  should  be  idolatry,  and  struck  with  as  keen  a 
pang  as  her  slender  nature  could  know,  if  her  butter 
was  streaky  or  her  cheese  crumbled. 

She  considered  her  husband  lord  and  head,  after  the 
old-fashioned  Scriptural  order,  and  listened  to  his  daily 
prayers  with  deep  reverence  for  such  striking  piety, 
though  she  knew  very  well  that  Amasa  was  a  hard  man, 
gathering  where  he  had  not  strewed,  and  reaping  where 
he  had  not  sown,  and  a  tyrant  where  a  man  can  be 
tyrannical  in  safety,  —  in  his  own  home. 

Two  children  out  of  ten  survived  to  this  pair.  Abun 
dant  dosing,  insufficient  food,  and  a  neglected  sink- 
drain  had  killed  all  the  others  who  outlived  their  earli 
est  infancy  ;  but  these  two  evaded  the  doom  that  had 
fallen  on  their  brothers  and  sisters,  by  the  fate  which 
modern  science  calls  the  survival  of  the  fittest,  and 
spindled  up  among  the  mullein-stalks  of  their  stone- 
strewn  pastures  as  gray,  lank,  dry,  and  forlorn  as  the 
mulleins  themselves  ;  with  pale  eyes,  straight  white  hair, 
sallow  faces,  and  the  shy  aspect  of  creatures  who  live 
in  the  woods,  and  are  startled  at  a  strange  footstep. 

They  were  taught  to  work  as  soon  as  they  could 
walk,  to  consider  sin  and  holiness  the  only  things  worth 
consideration,  to  attend  meeting  as  a  necessity,  and 
take  deserved  punishment  in  silence.  To  obedience  and 
endurance  their  physical  training,  or  want  of  training, 
conduced  also ;  alternate  pie  and  pork  are  not  an  en 
livening  diet  to  soul  or  body,  and  play  was  an  unknown 
factor  in  their  dreary  existence.  Keziah  grew  up  a 
repetition  of  her  mother,  — dull,  simple,  and  dutiful ;  but 
Thomas,  from  the  moment  he  entered  the  little  red 
school-house,  two  miles  awaj",  to  complete  the  education 


170  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

which  his  father  had  begun  by  the  evening  fire  at 
home,  showed  a  hunger  for  books  and  knowledge  that 
amounted  to  a  passion. 

Not  a  particle  did  he  care  for  the  girls  who  laughed 
at  him,  or  the  boys  who  tried  to  torment  him.  His  soul 
was  filled  with  the  joy  of  the  born  student,  to  whom 
every  fresh  study  is  a  rapture  that  never  palls,  every 
new  book  a  possession  outvaluing  gold  ;  to  whom  the 
daily  needs  and  pangs  of  life  are  as  a  tale  that  is 
told. 

It  was  but  a  very  little  while  before  Thomas  knew 
all  his  teacher  could  impart,  far  better  than  the  teacher 
herself  knew  it ;  but  his  thirst  was  scarcely  appeased. 
He  longed  for  ampler  opportunity,  for  better  instruc 
tion,  as  earnestly  as  Amasa  longed  for  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  and  at  last  plucked  up  shamefaced  courage 
enough  to  beg  his  father  that  he  might  go  to  the 
academy  at  Bantam,  ten  miles  down  the  valley. 

If  one  of  his  oxen  had  made  a  like  request  Amasa 
Tucker  could  not  have  been  more  astounded.  What 
his  boy  could  want  with  more  education  than  sufficed 
himself  was  past  his  imagining.  To  farm  an  upland  in 
Vermont,  after  the  hereditary  fashion  of  those  lonely 
hills,  did  not  seem  to  him  to  require  any  special 
science.  Hard  work,  perpetual  battle  with  the  ele 
ments  and  the  soil,  primarily  doomed  to  bear  thorns 
and  thistles,  —  surely  this  could  be  carried  on  with  no 
higher  education  ! 

Yet,  though  he  neither  answered  the  boy's  request 
nor  the  entreating  look  in  his  eyes,  his  inmost  heart 
softened  with  pride  in  his  sou.  No  genuine  New  Eng- 
lander  ever  despises  a  desire  for  knowledge,  or  sneers 
at  learning  without  an  inward  feeling  of  having  been 


ACCOUNT  OF  THOMAS   TUCKER.  171 

profane ;  and  Amasa  Tucker  was  a  typical  New  Eng- 
lander  of  the  old  sort,  now  so  fast  passing  away. 

When  Thomas  turned  back  to  his  work,  in  that  habit 
of  dumb  obedience  which  is  stronger  than  nature,  he 
did  not  know  that  he  had  dropped  into  his  father's 
mind  a  seed  that  would  take  root  and  grow  as  surely 
as  the  corn  he  had  just  dropped  into  the  furrow,  or  that 
the  harvest  of  its  planting  would  be  for  him ;  and  it 
was  not  till  that  corn  had  sprouted,  grown  to  rustling, 
glittering  blades,  tasselled  out,  ripened,  been  husked, 
and  heaped  in  shining  golden  ears  in  the  corn-house, 
till  the  apples  were  brought  in  to  their  long  bins,  and 
purple-streaked  turnips  and  yellow  carrots  stored  in  the 
barn-cellar,  that  the  boy  knew  how  this  other  grain  had 
at  last  come  to  the  full  ear. 

One  Saturday  night,  as  they  put  the  last  cow  into 
the  stanchions  after  milking  was  done,  his  father  said 
grimly :  — 

"  Thomas,  ef  you  want  more  edication  than  what  you 
have  had,  and  can  pay  your  way  to  go  to  Bantam 
'cademy  this  winter,  why,  I'll  give  ye  your  time." 

Thomas  was  not  demonstrative ;  the  dark  blood 
rushed  up  to  his  face,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the 
sudden  joy  seized  him  by  the  throat ;  but  he  only 
answered,  "I'll  try." 

So  the  next  week  he  walked  down  to  Bantam, 
applied  at  once  to  Parson  Lathrop  for  advice,  and, 
arriving  at  the  nick  of  time,  when  Semanthy  Pratt,  the 
parson's  old  house-keeper,  was  threatened  with  her 
annual  attack  of  "  rheumatiz,"  he  was  taken  at  once 
into  the  minister's  house  to  "do  chores  "  for  his  board. 
His  schooling  was  free,  since  he  lived  in  the  county 
of  which  Bantam  was  the  shire  town  ;  for  Parsons 


172  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

Academy  was  an  endowed  school,  and  only  pupils 
from  other  counties  paid  for  instruction  ;  and  there 
were  many  such,  for  the  school  had  a  wide  reputation. 

Perhaps  Thomas  was  not  the  best  chore-boy  in  the 
world.  Absorbed  in  pure  mathematics,  Greek  roots, 
or  the  proportions'  and  problems  of  chemistry,  he  too 
often  forgot  the  kindlings,  or  neglected  to  comb  and 
curry  the  old  white  horse.  But  then  he  never  went 
out  nights  ;  no  husking,  or  apple-bee,  or  quilting  frolic, 
no  sleigh-ride  or  turkey-shoot,  tempted  him  from  his 
beloved  books. 

If  anybody  complained  of  him  it  was  Semanthy, 
who  declared  to  her  cronies,  "  Well,  he's  good  enough, 
for  't  I  know.  He  don't  find  fault  with  his  vittles,  nor 
yet  he  don't  set  by  'em  no  great.  He's  as  big  a  dreamer 
as  Joseph  in  the  Bible.  I  don't  more'n  half  believe  he 
knows  what  he  doos  eat.  But  land !  he  aint  no  com 
pany  ;  you  might  as  well  set  down  along  of  a  rake- 
tail,  an'  tr}f  to  visit  with  it ;  he's  dumber'n  a  dumb 
critter,  for  they  do  make  a  sound.  I  say,  mabbe, 
'  Come,  Thomas,  you  fetch  me  in  a  pail  o'  water,  real 
spry  ;  and  take  that  air  squash  off  'n  the  hooks,  and 
get  me  a  piggin  o'  soft  soap  down  sullar."  Well,  he'll 
lay  down  his  book,  and  fetch  them  things  slow  as 
molasses, —  not  a  peep  nor  mutter, —  and  smack  right 
to  ag'in  at  that  book  o'  hisn,  and  peg  away  at  it  till 
bed-time.  I  do  mistrust  he  takes  it  to  bed  along  with 
him  ;  he  would  ef  I'd  let  him  have  a  taller  dip  !  I'd 
jest  as  lives  have  old  Bose  around,  as  fur  as  talkin' 
goes ;  p'r'aps  ruther,  for  he  does  wag  his  tail  real 
knowin',  jest  as  though  he'd  speak  ef  he  could  ;  but 
Thomas,  he  wouldn't  ef  he  could,  now  I  tell  ye !  " 

Parson  Lathrop  grew  interested  in  the  lad,  because 


ACCOUNT   OF  THOMAS   TUCKER.  173 

he  was  such  a  student,  for  there  was  nothing  lovable 
about  Thomas.  His  aspect  was  more  ungainly  than 
ever,  since  age  had  added  to  his  height  without  round 
ing  or  filling  out  his  lank  and  angular  figure  ;  and  by 
long  study  in  imperfect  light  —  for  Semanthy's  "  taller 
dips  "  served  for  little  more  than  to  show  the  darkness 
—  he  had  become  very  near-sighted,  winking  and  blink 
ing  like  an  owl  when  he  looked  away  from  his  book, 
and  wearing  the  perpetual  anxious  frown  of  imperfect 
vision.  In  the  summer  he  returned  to  his  work  on  the 
farm,  more  dull  than  ever  to  the  outer  world's  beauty 
and  joy.  One  thing  alone  possessed  his  soul, — an 
eager  longing  for  winter  and  his  return  to  the  precious 
opportunities  of  Bantam  ;  regardless  entirely  of  Seman 
thy's  scorn,  the  laughter  of  his  companions,  or  an}"  lack 
or  discomfort  in  his  daily  existence,  if  he  could  resume 
the  study  that  was  his  delight  and  life.  Before  the 
second  winter  was  over,  Parson  Lathrop,  observing  the 
boy  as  he  had  done  from  day  to  day,  made  up  his  mind 
as  to  Thomas's  vocation,  and  determined  to  come  up 
to  his  aid  in  fulfilling  so  marked  and  earnest  a  call.  So 
one  day  he  had  the  old  white  horse  put  into  the  high- 
backed  sleigh,  bundled  himself  up  in  his  fox-skin  coat, 
put  in  a  hot  brick  to  set  his  feet  upon,  tied  his  otter 
cap  close  about  his  ears,  drew  on  his  double-knit 
mittens,  and,  tucking  a  big  buffalo  robe  closely  about 
him,  set  off  for  the  Tucker  farm. 

It  is  a  great  strain  on  a  man's  benevolence  to  drive 
an  old  horse  ten  miles  of  an  uphill  country  road,  with 
the  thermometer  below  zero  ;  but  Parson  Lathrop  was 
one  of  the  uncanonized  saints  who  used  to  glorify  the 
waste  places  of  New  England,  and  of  whom  the  world 
was  not  worthy.  It  was  enough  for  him  that  he  was 


174  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

about  his  Master's  work ;  in  that,  he  did  not  consider 
himself  or  his  inconveniences. 

It  was  "  borne  in  upon  his  mind,"  as  he  phrased  it, 
that  Thomas  Tucker's  devotion  to  study  was  an  open 
indication  of  Providence  concerning  his  future  career, 
and  therefore  he  must  talk  with  his  father  about  it. 
Amasa  had  met  the  parson  now  and  then,  when  busi 
ness  took  him  to  Bantam,  so  they  were  not  strangers. 
He  laid  down  the  axe  with  which  he  was  chopping 
wood  when  the  parson  drove  into  the  yard,  and  went 
out  to  meet  him.  A  man  of  softer  nature  and  less 
faith  might  have  feared  that  this  visit  meant  some 
harm  had  happened  to  his  bo}',  but  Amasa's  soul  was 
firm  in  a  confidence  that  was  half  nature  and  half 
grace  ;  he  was  not  afraid. 

"  'Mazin'  cold  weather,  Parson  Lathrop,"  was  his 
greeting  ;  and  after  hospitably  stabling  the  old  horse 
he  followed  the  minister  into  the  house,  where,  before 
the  blazing  kitchen  fire,  and  over  a  mighty  mug  of 
steaming  flip,  still  hissing  from  its  hot  guest  the  poker, 
the  two  "  reasoned  high  "  as  the  recalcitrant  spirits  of 
hell,  and  on  the  same  themes,  until  the  parson,  at 
last,  wearied  of  mystic  theological  doctrine,  and  came 
to  the  point  of  his  errand.  He  set  down  the  blue  and 
yellow  mug,  and  opened  the  subject  abruptly  :  "  Well, 
Brother  Tucker,  I  came  up  especially  to  say  to  you  that 
I  believe  your  son  Thomas  hath  a  call  to  minister  in 
divine  things." 

"  I  dono !  "  said  Amasa.  Thomas  was  as  yet  his 
boy ;  he  could  not  look  upon  him  in  any  other  light 
without  further  experience. 

"  I  think  it  is  even  so,"  went  on  the  parson.  "  He 
is  like  Samuel  of  old  in  that  he  was  earlv  called ;  I 


ACCOUNT   OF   THOMAS   TUCKER.  175 

have  found  him  a  close  walker,  strict  in  attention  to 
ordinances,  well  grounded  in  Scripture  ;  not  given  to 
foolishness,  such  as  youths  are  too  apt  to  seek  after, 
but  one  that  studies  to  be  quiet.  And  such  a  lover  of 
knowledge,  such  a  hungerer  after  learning,  I  have 
scarce  ever  met  with." 

"  Well,  Parson  Lathrop,  I  should  as  lieves  take 
your  judgment  as  any  man's.  I  had  calc'lated  on 
Thomas's  keepin'  right  along  here,  and  cultivatin'  the 

tairth  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  same  as  I  do,  and  his 
grandsir'  did  afore  me.  I  don't  wan't  to  stand  in  the 
way  ef  he's  got  a  call  to  the  ministnr,  though.  I 
wouldn't  hold  him  back  from  the  Lord's  work,  no 
way  ;  but  yet  I  aint  clear  in  my  mind,  I'm  free  to  con 
fess,  how  to  fetch  it.  This  farm  has  gi'n  me  and  mine 
a  livin',  no  more ;  it's  '  sows,  an'  grows,  and  goes,'  as 
the  sayin'  is  ;  but  I  have  striv'  always,  bavin*  food  and 
raiment,  therewith  to  be  content,  but  I  haint  laid  up  a 
cent,  nor  I  aint  in  debt  nuther.  I  didn't  rightly 
know  how  to  spare  Thomas  to  the  'cademy  ;  I  couldn't, 
only  that  he  paid  his  way;  and  I  don't  know  how  he 
can  get  through  college.  Seems  as  though  there  was 
a  lion  in  the  path,  don't  there?" 

"  I  foresaw  this,  Brother  Tucker,"  answered  the 
parson,  gently.  "  It  has  been  a  trial  to  me  that  in  that 
day  I  cannot  say  to  the  Master,  '  Lo,  here  am  I,  and 
the  children  that  thou  gavest  me.'  I  have  a  silent 
house.  My  beloved  wife  was  under  a  weary  dispensa 
tion  of  bodily  ailment  all  her  days,  and  it  pleased  the 
Lord  to  deny  us  offspring.  It  was  the  last  drop  in  her 
bitter  cup  of  suffering  that  she  had  to  leave  me, 
humanly  speaking,  alone  ;  and  I  have  always  purposed 
to  use  the  small  portion  of  earthly  riches  she  left 


176  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

behind  her  for  the  good  of  those  who  had  the  blessing 
I  wanted,  and  needed  the  gifts  I  had.  If  so  be  you  can 
spare  Thomas,  I  will  help  him  to  his  desired  education  ; 
not  so  that  he  shall  cease  from  self-help, —  I  would  not 
have  him  weighted  with  a  sense  of  utter  dependence.  I 
propose  to  have  him  teach  a  school  when  his  academic 
course  is  over,  and  remain  with  me  till  I  can  fit  him  for 
college  myself.  He  will  have  laid  up  something  then, 
and  can  further  teach  in  vacations.  I  will  see  that  his 
funds  do  not  come  short.  All  this  if  you  consent." 

Amasa  pushed  back  his  chair  with  a  sharp,  creaking 
scrape,  his  face  set,  his  eyes  cold  and  stern  as  ever. 
The  most  acute  observer  could  not  have  seen  one  soft 
ening  quiver,  one  tremulous  line,  to  indicate  gratitude 
or  assent ;  yet  the  heart  within  him  glowed,  chill  and 
rayless  as  it  seemed.  "  I'm  obleeged  to  ye,"  he  said 
at  last,  in  the  dryest  fashion,  tilting  his  chair  back 
against  the  wall  and  clearing  his  throat,  as  if  that  said 
all.  But  Parson  Lathrop  knew  the  man  and  the  race  ; 
nor  was  he  himself  one  of  those  uneasy  souls  who  exact 
their  pound  of  effusive  gratitude  for  every  ounce  of  good 
expended  on  their  fellows.  His  left  hand  did  not  know 
nor  inquire  what  his  right  hand  did,  nor  even  shake  that 
comrade  palm  in  self-congratulation.  He  had  obtained 
the  father's  consent  to  take  care  of  Thomas  ;  now  he 
would  go  home  and  do  it.  So,  with  a  kindly  farewell, 
the  good  man  replaced  his  wraps,  and  took  his  way 
down  the  mountain,  meditating  on  heavenly  things, 
an  unconscious  saint,  if  indeed  saints  ever  are  con 
scious  ! 

Thomas  Tucker's  school-teaching,  however,  did  not 
prove  efficient.  Wrapped  up  in  his  studies,  he  was  so 
absent-minded  that  he  lacked  that  modified  omniscience 


ACCOUNT  OF  THOMAS  TUCKER.     177 

which  is  the  sine  qua  non  of  a  country  school-teacher. 
The  boys  played  marbles  under  his  very  nose,  and  he 
did  not  see  them  ;  they  told  him  the  most  audacious 
lies,  and  he  believed  them,  because  he  had  never  told 
a  lie  himself;  they  filched  his  pens  and  spilt  his  ink  ; 
they  put  burrs  in  the  crown  of  his  hat,  and  smeared 
his  mittens  with  pitch  scraped  from  the  pine-logs  in 
the  open  fireplace  ;  they  ate  his  dinner,  and  tied  his 
comforter  into  knots.  But  he  endured  it  all  with 
amazement  and  patience,  never  thinking  his  pupils 
could  or  would  be  hard  at  heart.  Then  they  began  to 
serenade  him  with  the  old  nursery  rhymes  of  Little 
Tommy  Tucker ;  to  draw  pictures  of  him  on  the  slate, 
with  that  vivacious  legend  attached ;  and  in  short  to 
learn  so  little  and  misbehave  so  much  that  after  one 
term  Thomas  was  "  advised  to  resign,"  and  Parson 
Luthrop  saw  that  his  prottg&  would  never  earn  even  the 
clothes  needful  to  his  college  course.  But  the  good  man 
had  counted  the  cost  when  he  set  out  to  build  this 
tower  of  learning,  and  he  sent  Thomas  at  once  to  the 
nearest  college ;  becoming  answerable  for  all  his 
expenses,  which  were  somewhat  lessened  by  the  fact 
that  a  brother  clergyman  at  Deerford  gave  Thomas  his 
board  on  condition  that  he  did  the  "chores"  of  the 
family  and  took  care  of  the  horse. 

During  his  first  year  in  this  institution  the  mountain 
farm  where  he  was  born,  always,  heretofore,  consid 
ered  beyond  the  reach  of  fevers  such  as  haunted  the 
lowlands,  was  suddenly  stricken.  Amasa  Tucker  and 
his  wife  both  fell  ill  with  one  of  those  malignant  dis 
eases  that  were  once  regarded  with  a  mystical  horror 
as  "  visitations  of  God,"  but  are  now  referred  to  con 
taminated  \vells  and  neglected  drainage.  Amasa  came 


178  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

in  from  the  woods  where  he  was  chopping,  one  after 
noon,  livid  and  ghastly  with  pain,  exclaiming,  like  the 
child  of  the  Shuuammite  woman,  "My  head!  my 
head  !  "  and  fell  upon  the  bed  senseless.  He  lay  there 
unconscious  all  night,  and  the  next  morning  Keziah 
set  out  at  dawn  to  walk  two  miles  to  the  nearest  neigh 
bor,  and  send  him  to  Bantam  for  a  doctor.  He  went 
at  once,  but  when  she  got  home  her  father  was  still 
senseless,  and  her  mother  sat  by  his  side,  with  both 
hands  clasped  about  her  own  head,  and  her  face 
scarcely  less  changed  than  her  husband's.  Amasa 
was  dead  when  Dr.  Knight  arrived,  and  in  twenty-four 
hours  Philura  had  followed  him  ;  both  d}Ting  speechless, 
without  one  parting  word  or  look  for  their  bereft 
daughter,  and  before  Thomas  could  come  from  Deer- 
ford.  It  was  a  strange,  sad  funeral  at  which  Parson 
Lathrop  officiated,  early  on  a  sweet  spring  day,  the  air 
fragrant  with  the  new  buds  and  fresh  scent  of  the  up 
turned  earth,  birds  twittering  among  the  lofty  pine- 
trees,  that  set  the  north  winds  at  defiance  on  two  sides 
of  that  quiet  graveyard,  and  the  tiny  lake  below 
repeating  the  fair  blue  heaven  above.  A  divine  peace 
seemed  to  fill  that  solitude  among  the  sheltering 
mountains,  and  as  the  good  man  looked  about  him  he 
reverently  removed  his  hat,  and,  before  the  dead  were 
laid  among  their  kindred  dust,  he  burst  involuntarily 
into  the  sublime  cadences  of  that  psalm  so  fitted  for 
the  time  and  place  :  — 


"  Lord !    Thou  hast  been  our  dwelling-place  in  all  generations. 
Before  the  mountains  were  brought  forth, 
Or  ever  Thou  hadst  formed  the  earth  and  the  world, 
Even  from  everlasting  to  everlasting, 
Thou  art  God." 


ACCOUNT   OF  THOMAS   TUCKER.  179 

But  the  triumphant  submission,  the  lofty  ascription, 
awoke  no  thrill  in  Thomas's  heart.  He  stood  by  the 
double  grave  like  one  in  a  dream ;  no  tear  dimmed  his 
eye,  no  quiver  moved  his  set  lips.  He  knew  well  that 
these  deaths  were  no  real  loss  to  him,  and  he  was  too 
vitally  and  thoroughly  honest  to  put  on  any  outward 
aspect  of  mourning.  Neither  father  nor  mother  had 
ever  tried  to  awaken  in  their  children  one  spark  of 
affection.  Duty,  grim,  hard  duty,  had  been  the  spring 
of  Amasa  Tucker's  life  toward  God  and  man.  He  had 
toiled,  and  prayed,  and  striven  to  fulfil  his  tale  of 
debt  toward  One  whom  he  knew  only  as  an  exacting 
Master,  and  to  "  set  loose  by  the  things  of  this  world,". 
as  he  expressed  it,  le-t  he  might  not  be  ready  for  the 
summons  to  another  ;  and  from  him  Keziah  had  learned 
to  dread  the  indulgence  of  natural  affection  as  idolatry 
and  a  weakness  of  the  carnal  heart,  which  was  always 
"at  enmit3r  with  God."  Consequently  the  children 
had  grown  up  unloving,  because  the}'  were  unloved. 
There  were  no  tender  recollections  to  wring  their  souls 
to-day  ;  no  unspeakable  longings  for  the  hand  that  had 
been  ever  ready  to  guide,  or  the  voice  always  eager 
to  cheer.  Even  Parson  Lathrop  was  astonished  and 
grieved  to  see  that  prim  composure  of  the  one  and 
dreamy  indifference  of  the  other,  and  forbore  to  pray 
that  God  would  bind  up  the  broken  in  heart,  being  too 
honest  to  be  conventional. 

Happily  for  Keziah,  Parson  Lathrop's  widowed 
sister  had  come  to  Bantam  to  "  make  it  home  with 
him,"  as  the  country  phrase  is;  and,  never  weary  in 
well-doing,  the  good  man  took  Keziah  home,  and  sent 
her  to  Parsons  Academy  ;  and  in  due  time  she  became 
a  school-teacher,  more  successful  than  Thomas,  for  she 


180  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

only  attempted  to  teach  little  children,  whom  her  dull, 
quiet  nature  enabled  her  to  drill  in  their  earliest  educa 
tion  with  unwearied  patience  and  smiling  endurance. 

Thomas  himself  went  on  in  his  college  course  utterly 
unmoved  by  the  tricks  of  sophomores  or  the  contempt 
of  seniors.  He  was  called  "Little  Tommy  Tucker" 
through  the  recurring  terms  in  every  tone  of  scorn, 
amusement,  and  disgust,  without  seeming  to  know 
that  it  was  not  his  proper  title.  Nothing  interested 
him  but  his  books.  Society  was  a  meaningless  waste 
of  time  in  his  eyes,  and  he  respected  holidays  only 
because  he  could  spend  them  undisturbed  in  the  college 
library,  without  need  to  stir  for  any  purpose  save  the 
necessities  of  food  and  rest,  always  at  their  mimimum 
with  him.  He  went  to  the  end  of  the  career  here  with 
absolute  success  as  far  as  learning  goes,  graduated  with 
the  highest  honors,  and  passed  on  into  the  theo 
logical  seminary  in  Hartland,  an  epitome  of  learning, 
but  without  a  single  friend. 

Here  he  revelled  in  Greek  and  Hebrew ;  became 
still  more  lank,  bent,  pale,  and  introverted  than  ever ; 
and  when  he  was  at  last  through  with  his  divinity 
course  knew  more  of  his  studies  and  less  of  his  fellow- 
creatures  than  any  other  man  of  his  class.  He  was  tem 
porarily  placed  in  charge  of  the  college  chapel  when  he 
returned  to  Deerford,  its  pulpitbeing  vacant  for  the  time  ; 
and  he  preached  to  the  students  before  him  such  dis 
courses  as  might  have  edified  a  body  of  old  Puritan  di 
vines, —  erudite,  doctrinal,  logical,  orthodox,  but  without 
one  spark  of  human  sympathy  or  divine  love.  The  eager 
crowd  refused  such  husks,  and  expressed  their  disgust, 
as  a  crowd  of  boys  will ;  but  Thomas  Tucker  took  no 
more  notice  of  their  scuffling  feet,  their  laughter,  their 


ACCOUNT   OF   THOMAS   TUCKER.  181 

feigned  sleep,  or  their  simultaneous  attacks  of  cold  in 
the  head  or  distressing  cough  than  he  took  of  the 
wintry  winds  without  that  dashed  the  elm-tree  boughs 
against  the  lofty  chapel  windows,  or  the  streaming  rain 
that  pattered  on  its  roof.  He  was  there  to  preach,  and 
preach  he  did ;  gladly,  however,  retiring  from  the  office 
when  the  clergyman  for  whom  he  had  been  locum  tenens 
arrived.  It  was  evident  to  those  who  knew  him  best 
in  the  city  that  it  was  not  his  vocation  to  preach  ;  and 
as  he  was  respected  among  those  learned  men  for  his 
devotion  to  study  and  his  vast  acquisition  of  knowledge 
for  so  young  a  man,  and  as  the  professor  of  ancient 
languages  was  about  to  resign  his  position,  and  his  life 
too,  it  was  brought  about  that  Thomas  Tucker  should 
be  offered  his  place.  It  was  true,  he  was  comparatively 
young ;  but  there  was  no  real  youth  about  him.  He 
went  his  way  with  the  absorption  of  a  sexagenarian, 
only  that  his  were  the  cares  of  learning  and  meditation 
rather  than  of  this  world  and  declining  years. 

Soon  after  his  acceptance  of  the  professorship  he 
was  sent  for  to  say  good-by  to  Parson  Lathrop.  For 
this  good  man,  who  had  been  a  real  father  to  him  in 
the  best  fatherly  sense,  Thomas  felt  all  the  affection  in 
his  power ;  and  as  he  stood  by  his  death-bed,  the 
dreamy,  deep-set  eyes  sparkled  with  unshed  tears, 
and  the  melancholy  lips  trembled.  He  could  not 
speak  ;  he  could  only  grasp  the  emaciated  and  burning 
hand  held  out  to  him,  and  see  through  a  dim  haze  the 
faint,  sweet  smile  on  the  old  man's  face. 

"  I  am  going  home,  my  son,"  whispered  the  parson. 
"  I  sent  for  you  to  say  it  is  best  now  that  you  should 
take  Keziah  to  be  with  you.  Sister  Keery  has  gone 
before  me,  having  had  an  abundant  entrance  into  the 


182  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

kingdom."  Here  he  paused,  and  Keziah  gave  him  a 
sip  of  restorative.  "  My  tongue  is  parched,  even,  as 
the  tongue  of  Dives,  but  I  am  not  afraid  of  his  fate.  I 
know  in  whom  I  have  believed.  Thomas,  as  I  said, 
take  Keziah  home  with  you.  Well  sayeth  the  Apoc 
rypha,  though  it  be  not  with  inspiration,  '  Without 
women  cannot  men  live.'  It  is  better  for  you,  in  this 
new  honor  that  hath  come  to  you,  to  have  the  dignity 
of  a  home,  and  it  is  best  that  she  should  have  its 
comfort.  '  He  setteth  the  solitary  in  families,'  and 
what  better  earthly  thing  could  he  do  for  them  ?  " 

"  I  will !  "  said  Thomas,  as  solemnly  as  if  this  were 
a  marriage  ceremony. 

The  parson  smiled,  but  the  wandering  of  death  was 
on  him.  It  seemed  as  if  his  will  had  controlled  the 
fluttering  of  the  spirit,  eager  to  break  its  chr}7salis  and 
soar,  until  he  had  finished  his  good  work  on  earth  ; 
now  he  ceased  from  his  labors,  but  his  heart  yet  beat, 
and  his  disordered  mind  babbled  on  those  clay-cold 
lips. 

"They're  all  in  the  yard,  Celia,"  he  said;  "  and 
the  sun  isn't  down  yet ;  it's  above  Saltash ;  and  I 
cocked  all  the  hay  on  the  lower  meadow.  Tell  Se- 
manthy  to  fetch  the  milk-pails."  Then  he  muttered 
something  the}7  could  not  hear.  Celia  was  his  wife's 
name,  and  that  recurred  audibly  over  and  over.  Sud 
denly  his  look  changed,  his  eyes  opened,  a  radiant 
gleam  broke  across  the  pallid  face,  and,  lifting  one 
hand  upward,  he  said,  "Why,  Celia!  Come!  rise! 
let  us  be  going ;  the  Master  calleth  for  thee ;  "  so  he 
went  as  bidden. 

Thomas  and  Keziah  walked  behind  the  coffin,  when 
Parson  Lathrop's  funeral  train  wound  its  way  along  the 


ACCOUNT   OF  THOMAS   TUCKER.  183 

shore  of  the  tranquil  lake  to  the  same  lonely  grave 
yard  where  their  parents  lay,  feeling  in  their  hearts  that 
here  and  now  they  buried  a  nearer  and  dearer  friend 
than  either  father  or  mother  had  been ;  and  the  silent 
crowd  who  followed  them  were  all  alike  mourners,  for 
the"parsou  had  been  a  power  and  a  presence  of  good 
ness  in  their  midst  for  many  a  long  year.  They 
stayed,  too,  after  they  had  lain  the  worn-out  body  to 
sleep  in  the  tender  shadow  of  the  hills  he  loved,  to 
hear  his  funeral  sermon,  preached  by  a  neighboring 
brother,  who  was  in  such  pathetic  earnest  that  his 
misuse  of  speech  could  not  stir  a  smile  in  the  attentive 
audience,  even  when  he  said,  in  describing  the  good 
man's  last  hours,  that  "  a  heavenly  smile  eradicated 
his  countenance." 

Then  the  brother  and  sister  went  back  to  Deerford, 
and,  hiring  a  small  house,  began  their  life  together. 
Parson  Lathrop  had  left  his  little  property  to  Keziah, 
and  these  few  thousands,  added  to  the  yearly  rental  of 
the  old  farm  and  the  house  in  Bantam,  kept  her  inde 
pendent  soul  from  feeling  that  she  was  a  burden  upon 
Thomas,  and  his  salary  was  more  than  sufficient  for 
their  daily  needs.  So  for  a  year  or  two  they  lived  in 
peace,  until  Satan,  or  some  lesser  minion  of  evil,  put 
it  into  the  head  of  a  student,  whose  mischief  always 
over-rode  his  manners,  to  play  a  joke  upon  "Old 
Tommy." 

Professor  Tucker,  throughout  his  college  life,  had 
never  been  known  to  address  the  least  attention,  scarcely 
the  least  civility,  to  any  woman  ;  he  avoided  all  society 
but  that  of  his  books,  refused  all  invitations,  and  lived 
in  his  room  like  a  hermit  in  his  cell.  But  when  his 
sister  arrived,  and  he  became  a  householder,  the  maids 


184  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

and  matrons  collateral  to  the  faculty  of  which  he  was  a 
member  at  once  felt  it  their  duty  to  call  on  Keziah,and 
welcome  her  to  their  social  enjoyments.  But  she  was 
as  shy  as  her  brother,  and  proved  impracticable  to 
almost  every  one.  Her  nearest  neighbor  alone,  a 
maiden  lady  of  good  family  and  fine,  cheerful  presence, 
well-to-do,  and  having  the  courageous  aplomb  that  all 
these  gifts  bestow  on  a  woman,  made  some  headway  in 
the  good  graces  of  the  quiet  rustic  spinster.  Miss 
Eleanor  Yale  would,  welcomed  or  not,  invade  Keziah's 
solitude  now  and  then,  insist  on  driving  her  out  to  show 
her  the  beautiful  environs  of  Hartland,  send  her  flowers 
f  rom  her  own  elaborate  garden  and  fruit  from  her  peach 
and  pear  trees,  all  out  of  the  most  frank  and  free 
benevolence  ;  for  she  pitied  the  solitary  creature,  know 
ing  in  her  own  heart  how  forlorn  loneliness  is  to  any 
woman,  though  all  the  other  good  things  of  life  be 
poured  out  abundantly  into  her  hands.  Miss  Keziah 
had  a  heart,  —  somewhat  torpid  for  want  of  exercise, 
perhaps,  but  still  a  heart,  —  and  she  felt  Miss  Yale's 
kindness,  without  finding  words  to  express  it  to  that 
lady ;  but  she  spoke  of  her  so  often  to  the  professor 
that  he  learned  to  know  her  name,  and  thereby  pre 
cipitated  a  certain  impending  catastrophe,  set  in  motion 
by  Jack  Mason,  the  aforesaid  student.  On  Valentine's 
day  —  a  day  of  which  Thomas  Tucker  was  no  more 
conscious  and  no  better  informed  than  Confucius  or 
Aristotle — he  received  by  mail  a  flowing  ditty,  of  the 
most  tender  sort,  written  in  a  woman's  hand,  and 
signed  "  Eleanor."  The  professor  stood  aghast. 
Poetry  had  no  charms  for  him  ;  he  had  not  the  remot 
est  idea  of  its  figurative  speech,  its  license,  or  its 
u  tricks  and  manners  ;  "  to  him  it  was  merely  curiously 


ACCOUNT   OF  THOMAS   TUCKER.  185 

arranged  prose,  and  this  devoted  and  tender  valentine 
seemed  neither  more  nor  less  than  an  offer  of  marriage. 
His  hair  fairly  stood  on  end,  and  his  forehead  was  knit 
with  perplexity.  Who  could  have  done  this  thing? 
Suddenly  he  remembered  that  Eleanor  was  the  name  of 
his  sister's  friend,  and  even  on  his  learned  and  ab 
stracted  soul  dawned  a  glimmer  of  the  man's  instinctive 
contempt  for  women,  as  he  bethought  himself  how  this 
woman  had  sought  his  sister's  friendship  and  done  her 
such  kindnesses  all  for  his  sake.  Still,  being  an  excep 
tional  man,  he  was  moved  rather  to  pity  than  scorn,  on 
further  reflection,  thinking  of  all  this  wasted  trouble 
and  useless  feeling  on  the  lady's  part.  There  was  but 
one  thing  to  be  done.  He  did  not  want  to  marry  any 
one ;  he  had  not  planned  or  intended  any  such  thing ; 
his  life  and  love  were  all  centred  in  his  studies,  his 
books,  his  profession.  And  was  not  Keziah  able  and 
willing  to  do  for  him  all  those  services  which  some  men 
had  no  sisters  to  attend  to,  and  therefore  were  obliged 
to  marry? 

But  this  poor  woman,  —  she  must  not  be  deluded 
with  so  futile  a  hope.  It  was  unpleasant  to  contem 
plate,  but  Thomas  Tucker  never  shrank  from  duty  ;  he 
must  be  honest  or  die.  So  he  put  on  his  hat  and  coat, 
and,  presenting  himself  at  Miss  Yale's  door,  asked  to 
see  that  lady.  Miss  Yale  was  astonished,  but  she  re 
ceived  the  professor  a  little  more  kindly  because  she 
was  astonished,  and  afraid  she  should  not  put  him 
entirely  at  his  ease.  But  he  was  more  formal,  more 
awkward,  more  stiff  than  ever  before.  He  sat  down  on 
the  highest  chair  in  the  room,  and,  drawing  the  luckless 
missive  from  his  breast-pocket,  plunged  at  once  into 
the  middle  of  things. 


186  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

"  Madam ! "  he  began,  sternly,  "  I  have  received 
this  epistle,  bearing  your  name  in  superscription,  which 
donbtless  you  recognize.  I  thank  you  for  the  regard 
herein  expressed  ;  but  as  an  honest  man,  and  one  who 
is  in  bonds  to  the  truth,  I  come  to  say  to  you  that  mar 
riage  has  not  entered  into  my  plans  at  any  time,  nor  is 
there  any  likelihood  that  it  will." 

Miss  Yale  looked  at  him  with  wide  eyes.  "  What? " 
she  cried,  in  amazement. 

"  I  refer  to  this  letter  you  have  sent  me,  couched  in 
the  mode  of  verse,"  replied  the  professor,  grim  as  a 
lion  on  a  sign-post  of  old  time,  and  full  as  wooden. 

"  Give  me  the  letter,  if  you  please,"  said  Miss  Yale, 
her  color  rising,  and  her  eyes  full  of  a  dangerous  glow. 
But  the  professor  knew  nothing  of  the  sex  and  its 
ways,  except  theoretically  ;  he  handed  her  the  docu 
ment,  without  any  fear  of  its  explosive  tendencies. 
Miss  Yale  read  it  through,  and  looked  up  at  him.  He 
was  already  lost  in  some  problem,  or  evolving  some 
theory  ;  but  her  voice  roused  him. 

"  Do  you  think  I  sent  3*011  this?"  she  asked,  in  a 
very  quiet  voice,  —  altogether  too  quiet  to  be  reassur 
ing. 

"Is  not  that  your  given  name  by  which  it  is 
signed  ?  "  returned  the  professor. 

"  Yes.  But  I  want  to  understand  what  you  consid 
ered  this  letter  to  mean,"  she  went  on,  with  the  same 
ominous  quietness  of  manner,  holding  herself  in  leash, 
as  it  were,  till  the  time  for  a  spring. 

"  I  think  it  has  but  one  meaning,  which  he  that  runs 
may  read  :  that  you  are  desirous  of  entering  the  state 
o-f  matrimom'." 

"With  vou?" 


ACCOUNT  OF  THOMAS   TUCKER.  187 

"With  me,"  responded  Thomas  Tucker,  with  curt 
and  ghastly  honesty. 

Miss  Yale  rose  to  her  feet,  and  her  clear  eyes  flashed. 
The  professor  felt  danger ;  he  shrank  visibly  into  him 
self,  yet  fixed  an  undaunted  gaze  upon  her.  She 
looked  at  him  a  moment,  and,  with  the  vivid  speed  of 
thought,  remembered  herself,  her  position,  his  nature 
and  his  habits.  Her  anger  died  ;  she  threw  herself 
back  on  the  sofa,  and  laughed  till  the  tears  rolled  down 
her  fair  face. 

The  professor  was  entirely  speechless  ;  he  knew  not 
what  to  say,  but  at  last,  in  honest  indignation,  opened 
his  mouth,  much  like  his  Scriptural  prototype,  to  the 
angel  in  the  path  :  — 

"  It  seems,  madam,  unsavory  subject  for  mirth.  I 
am  in  earnest." 

"And  so  am  I,"  said  Miss  Yale,  drj-ing  her  bedewed 
cheeks,  and  trying  to  be  sober.  "  Professor  Tucker,  I 
did  not  write  that  letter.  Some  sill}'  and  impertinent 
boy  sent  it  to  you  to  deceive  and  disturb  you.  If  I 
wished  to  marry  you  I  should  not  take  that  method  of 
obtaining  my  wish.  I  am  a  woman  and  a  lady :  good 
women  and  true  ladies  do  not  do  such  things." 

She  looked  directly  at  him  as  she  said  this,  and  her 
eyes  sparkled.  Some  manly  shame  stirred  in  the  pro 
fessor's  bosom  ;  he  extracted  a  great  red  and  yellow 
handkerchief,  with  much  contortion,  from  his  coat-tail 
pocket,  and  used  it  sonorously. 

Miss  Yale's  lips  quivered  a  little,  and  a  sudden  dim 
ple  flashed  in  her  cheek ;  but  she  went  on,  certain, 
with  her  own  perfect  tact,  that  this  man  must  be  treated 
with  absolute  truth,  like  his  own  :  "  Moreover,  in  order 
to  show  you  convincingly  that  I  had  no  such  intention, 


188  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

beside  not  having  written  that  letter,  I  will  tell  you,  in 
confidence,  — a  trust  I  feel  will  be  safe  in  ycur  bauds, 
—  that  I  have  promised  to  marry  President  Wiuthrop 
some  time  next  summer." 

As  Professor  Tucker  looked  at  the  warm  flush  that 
covered  the  fine  face  of  Eleanor  Yale,  and  perceived 
the  soft  glow  of  her  eyes,  he  thought  that  the  widowed 
president  was  a  happy  man,  but  he  did  not  say  so. 
"  Madam,  I  ask  your  pardon,"  he  said,  humbly.  "And 
for  that  son  of  Belial,  who  hath  made  me  his  music, 
I  trust  due  punishment  is  somewhere  reserved,"  he 
gloomily  added,  and  departed  in  a  shambling  fashion, 
that  once  more  provoked  Miss  Yale's  dimples  and  set 
her  eyes  dancing.  And — alas  for  the  feminine  malice, 
of  which  a  grain  lurks  in  the  best  woman's  heart !  —  that 
very  night  President  Winthrop  was  entertained  with  a 
resume  of  her  afternoon's  experience  ;  and  that  genial 
gentleman  roared  and  rolled  with  laughter,  for  he  knew 
Thomas  Tucker  far  better  than  Miss  Yale  did,  and 
could  more  thoroughly  enjoy  the  situation. 

After  this  occurrence,  which  Hebrew  points  and 
crabbed  S}Tiac  idioms  soon  drove  from  the  professor's 
mind,  he  went  his  way  for  a  while  quite  undisturbed ; 
but  he  was  so  unsuccessful  as  a  teacher  that,  on  some 
excellent  pretext,  it  pleased  the  trustees  of  the  college 
to  remove  him  from  his  position.  They  recommended 
him  to  a  church  in  the  city,  seeking  for  a  clergyman  to 
fill  its  pulpit,  and  then  advised  him  to  accept  the  call. 
It  was  at  first  an  irksome  employment  for  the  professor, 
but  he  did  not  love  teaching ;  it  was  far  easier  for  him 
to  produce  two  sermons  a  week,  in  the  seclusion  of  his 
study,  than  to  face  daily  a  class  of  youths,  more  or  less 
refractory,  if  they  were  students,  and  try  to  beat  into 


ACCOUNT   OF  THOMAS   TUCKER.  189 

them   the   beauties    and    intricacies   of  the  dead   lan 
guages. 

The  social  duties  of  a  settled  clergyman  might  have 
pressed  on  him  onerously ;  but,  as  if  Providence  saw 
that  he  was  best  fitted  for  a  life  of  solitude,  jnst  as  the 
Green  Street  church  had  listened  to  their  learned  and 
pious  pastor  for  the  first  time  after  his  installation  in 
their  pulpit,  Keziah,  his  sister,  was  seized  with  a  sudden 
and  dangerous  illness.  The  kind  women  of  the  church 
rallied  around  Thomas  Tucker  in  this  hour  of  his  need, 
and  nursed  Keziah  with  unremitting  kindness  ;  but  all 
in  vain.  She  dropped  out  of  life  as  silently  and 
patient!}*  as  she  had  endured  living,  and  it  remained 
only  to  say  that  the  place  which  knew  her  should  now 
know  her  no  more  ;  for  she  left  behind  her  no  dear 
friend  but  her  brother,  and  not  an  enemy.  Even 
Thomas  missed  her  rather  ns  a  convenience  than  a  com 
panion  ;  profiting  in  a  certain  sense  by  her  death,  as  it 
aroused  keenly  the  sympathy  of  the  church  for  his  loss 
and  loneliness,  and  attached  them  to  him  by  those  links 
of  pity  that  are  proverbially  almost  as  strong  as  love. 
In  any  other  circumstances  the  Green  Street  church 
would  no  doubt  have  discovered,  early  in  their  relation, 
that  Mr.  Tucker  was  as  unfit  for  any  pastoral  position 
as  he  had  been  for  that  post  in  the  college  chapel ;  but 
much  was  forgiven  him  out  of  his  people's  abundant 
kindness  ;  and  their  respect  for  his  learning,  his  sim 
plicity,  and  his  sincere  piety  forbade  their  objecting  at 
first  to  his  great  deficiencies  in  those  things  considered 
quite  as  needful  to  pulpit  success  as  the  power  of 
preaching  and  the  abundance  of  knowledge.  It  hap 
pened,  soon  after  Keziah' s  death,  that  Mr.  Tucker  was 
called  to  officiate  at  the  funeral  of  one  of  his  wealthiest 


190  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

parishioners,  a  man  who  had  just  come  back  from 
Europe,  and  been  killed  in  a  railroad  accident  on  the 
way  to  his  home  in  Deerford.  He  was  personally  un 
known  to  Thomas  Tucker,  but  his  character  was  noto 
rious.  He  went  to  church,  and  bought  an  expensive 
pew  there,  merely  as  a  business  speculation ;  it  gave 
him  weight  in  the  eyes  of  his  fellows  to  be  outwardly 
respectable  as  well  as  rich  ;  but  he  was  niggardly  to  his 
family,  ostentatious,  overreaching,  and  cruel  as  death 
to  the  poor  and  struggling  who  crossed  his  path  or  came 
into  his  employ. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Tucker  improved  the  occasion. 
He  took  for  the  text  of  that  funeral  address,  "What 
shall  it  profit  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole  world,  and 
lose  his  own  soul?"  and  after  a  pungent  comparison 
between  the  goods  of  this  world  and  the  tortures  of  a 
future  state  he  laid  down  his  spectacles,  and  wound 
up  with,  "  And  now,  beloved,  I  have  laid  before  you 
the  two  conditions.  Think  ye  that  to-day  he  whose 
mortal  part  lieth  before  you  would  not  utter  a  loud 
Amen  to  my  statement?  Yea,  if  there  be  truth  in  the 
word  of  God,  he  who  hath  left  behind  him  the  gain  of 
life  and  greed  is  now  crying  aloud  for  a  drop  of  water 
to  cool  his  parched  tongue,  and  longing  for  an  hour  of 
probation  wherein  to  cast  off  the  fetters  of  ill-gotten  gold 
and  sit  with  Lazarus  gathering  crumbs  in  the  company 
of  dogs.  Wherefore,  seeing  that  God  hath  spoken 
sharply  to  you  all  in  the  sudden  requirement  of  this 
rich  man's  soul,  let  his  admonition  sink  into  your 
souls  ;  seek  ye  first  the  kingdom  of  God,  and  cast  in 
your  lot  with  the  poor  of  this  world,  rich  in  faith,  and 
be  ready  to  answer  joyfully  when  the  Master  calls." 

Of  course  the  community  was  outraged ;  but  for  a 


ACCOUNT  OF  THOMAS   TUCKER.  191 

few  kindly  souls,  who  stood  by  the  poor  parson,  and  in 
sisted  that  Keziah's  death  had  unsettled  his  mind,  and 
not  a  few  who  felt  that  he  had  manfully  told  the  truth, 
without  fear  or  favor,  and  could  not  help  feeling  a  cer 
tain  respect  for  him,  he  would  have  been  asked,  forcibly, 
to  resign,  that  very  week.  As  it  was,  the  indignant 
widow  went  over  to  another  denomination  without 
delay.  "  I  will  never  set  foot  in  that  church  again  !  " 
she  said.  "  How  can  one  be  safe  where  a  man  is  al 
lowed  to  say  whatever  he  chooses  in  the  pulpit?  A 
ritual  never  can  be  personal  or  insulting.  I  shall  abide 
by  the  Prayer-Book  hereafter." 

In  due  time  this  matter  faded  out  of  the  popular 
mind,  as  all  things  do  in  course  of  time,  and  nothing 
came  between  pastor  and  people,  except  a  gradual 
sense  on  their  part  that  Solomon  was  right  when  he 
said,  "Much  study  is  a  weariness  to  the  flesh;"  not 
only  the  student's  flesh,  but  also  theirs  who  have  to 
hear  ^reiterated  all  the  dry  outcome  of  such  study. 

But  Parson  Tucker's  career  was  not  to  be  monotonous. 
His  next  astonishing  performance  was  at  a  wedding. 
A  very  pretty  young  girl,  an  orphan,  living  in  the  house 
of  a  relative,  equally  poor  but  grasping  and  ambitious, 
was  about  to  mnrry  a  young  man  of  great  wealth  and 
thoroughly  bad  character :  a  man  whom  all  men  knew 
to  be  a  drunkard,  a  gambler,  and  a  dissolute  fellow, 
though  the  only  son  of  a  cultivated  and  very  aristo 
cratic  family.  Poor  Emily  Manning  had  suffered  all 
those  deprivations  and  mortifications  which  result  from 
living  in  a  dependent  condition,  aware  that  her  pres 
ence  was  irksome  and  unwelcome,  while  her  delicate 
organization  was  overtaxed  with  work  whose  limits 
were  as  indefinite  as  the  food  and  clothing  which  were 


192  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

its  only  reward.  She  had  entered  into  this  engagement 
in  a  sort  of  desperation,  goaded  on  by  the  widowed 
sister-in-law  with  whom  she  lived,  and  feeling  that 
nothing  could  be  much  worse  than  her  present  position. 
Parson  Tucker  knew  nothing  of  this,  but  he  did  know 
the  character  of  Roj'al  Van  Wyck ;  and  when  he  saw 
the  pallid,  delicate,  shrinking  girl  beside  this  already 
worn-out,  debased,  bestial  creature,  ready  to  put  her 
self  into  his  hands  for  life,  the  "daimon"  laid  hold 
upon  him,  and  spake  again.  He  opened  the  service, 
as  was  customary  in  Hartland,  with  a  short  address  ; 
but  surely  never  did  such  a  bridal  exhortation  enter  the 
ears  of  man  and  woman  before. 

"  My  friends,"  he  began,  "matrimony  is  not  to  be 
lightly  undertaken,  as  the  matter  of  a  day ;  it  is  an 
awful  compact  for  life  and  death  that  ye  enter  into 
here.  Young  man,  if  thou  hast  not  within  thyself  the 
full  purpose  to  treat  this  woman  with  pure  respect, 
loyal  service,  and  tender  care  ;  to  guard  her  soul's  in 
nocence  as  well  as  her  bodily  welfare  ;  to  cleave  to  her 
only,  and  keep  thyself  from  evil  thoughts  and  base  in 
dulgences  for  her  sake,  —  if  thou  art  not  fit,  as  well  as 
willing,  to  be  priest  and  king  of  a  clean  household, 
standing  unto  her  in  character  and  act  in  God's  stead 
so  far  as  man  may,  draw  back  even  now  from  thine  in 
tent  ;  for  a  lesser  purpose  is  sacrilege  here,  and  will  be 
damnable  infamy  hereafter/' 

Royal  Van  Wyck  opened  his  sallow  green  eyes  with 
an  insolent  stare.  He  would  have  sworn  roundly  had 
not  some  poor  instinct  of  propriety  restrained  him  ; 
as  it  was,  he  did  not  speak,  but  looked  awa}'.  He 
could  not  bear  the  keen,  deep-set  eyes  fixed  upon  him  ; 
and  a  certain  gaunt  majesty  in  the  parson's  outstretched 


ACCOUNT   OF  THOMAS   TUCKER.  193 

arm  and  severe  countenance  daunted  him  for  the  moment. 
But  Thomas  Tucker  saw  that  he  had  no  intention  of 
acceptiug  this  good  advice,  so  he  turned  to  Emily. 

"Daughter,"  he  said,  "if  thou  art  about  to  enter 
into  this  solemn  relation,  pause  and  consider.  If  thou 
hast  not  such  confidence  in  this  man  that  thy  heart 
faileth  not  an  iota  at  the  prospect  of  a  life-long  com 
panionship  with  him ;  if  thou  canst  not  trust  him 
utterly,  respect  him  as  thy  lord  and  head,  yield  him  an 
obedience  joyful  and  secure  next  to  that  thou  givest  to 
God ;  if  he  is  not  to  thee  the  one  desirable  friend  and 
lover ;  if  thou  hast  a  thought  so  free  of  him  that  it  is 
possible  for  thee  to  imagine  another  man  in  his  place 
without  a  shudder ;  if  thou  art  not  willing  to  give 
thyself  to  him  in  the  bonds  of  a  life-long,  inevitable 
covenant  of  love  and  service  ;  if  it  is  not  the  best  and 
sweetest  thing  earth  can  offer  thee  to  be  his  wife  and 
the  mother  of  his  children,  — stop  now  ;  stop  at  the  very 
horns  of  the  altar,  lest  thou  commit  the  worst  sin  of 
woman,  sell  thy  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage,  and 
find  no  place  for  repentance,  though  thou  seek  it  care 
fully  and  with  tears." 

Carried  away  with  his  zeal  for  truth  and  righteous 
ness,  speaking  as  with  the  sudden  inspiration  of  a 
prophet,  Parson  Tucker  did  not  see  the  terror  and  the 
paleness  deepening,  as  he  spoke,  on  the  bride's  fair 
countenance.  As  he  extended  his  hand  toward  her 
she  fell  in  a  dead  faint  at  his  feet.  All  was  confusion 
in  an  instant.  The  bridegroom  swore  and  Mrs.  Man 
ning  screamed,  while  the  relations  crowded  about  the 
insensible  girl,  and  tried  to  revive  her.  She  was 
taken  at  once  upstairs  to  her  room,  and  the  wedding 
put  off  till  the  next  day,  as  Mrs.  Manning  announced. 


194  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

"  And  you  won't  officiate  at  it,  old  fellow  !  I'll  swear 
to  that ! "  roared  the  baffled  bridegroom,  with  a  volley 
of  profane  epithets,  shaking  his  fist  in  the  parson's 
calm  face. 

"  Having  taken  the  sword,  I  am  content  to  perish 
thereby,  even  as  Scripture  saith,"  answered  Thomas 
Tucker,  stalking  out  of  the  door. 

That  night,  as  he  sat  in  his  study,  the  door  opened 
softly,  and  Emily  Manning  came  in  and  knelt  at  the 
side  of  the  parson's  chair.  "  I  have  no  place  to  go  to, 
sir,"  she  whispered,  with  trembling  lips.  "  You  saved 
me  to-dny ;  will  you  help  me  now?  I  was  going  to 
sin,  but  I  didn't  know  it  till  you  told  me." 

"Then  it  was  not  sin,  my  child,"  said  Parson 
Tucker,  gently.  "  Sin  is  conscious  transgression,  and 
from  that  thou  hast  instantly  departed." 

"  But  what  could  I  do?"  she  asked,  her  eyes  full  of 
tears.  "  I  have  no  home.  Marcia  is  tired  of  me,  and 
I  have  no  other  friends.  I  wanted  a  home  so  much. 
Oh,  I  was  wrong,  for  I  did  not  love  him.  And  now  I 
have  run  away  from  Marcia,  —  she  was  so  dreadful, — 
and  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  Poor  child  !  "  he  said,  tenderly.  "  Sit  here.  I  will 
help.  My  old  woman,  in  the  kitchen  below,  shall 
fetch  thee  to  a  chamber.  Keziah  brought  her  with  us ; 
she  is  kind,  and  will  care  for  thee,  while  I  go  to  bring 
a  friend."  So  saying,  the  parson  rung  his  bell  for  old 
Jane,  gave  the  girl  over  to  her  care,  and  set  out  him 
self  for  President  Winthrop's  house. 

"  I  have  brought  you  a  good  work,"  he  said  abruptly 
to  Mrs.  Winthrop.  "Come  with  me;  there  is  a  soul 
in  need  at  my  house." 

Mrs.  Winthrop  was   used  to  this  sort  of  summons 


ACCOUNT  OF  THOMAS   TUCKER.  195 

from  the  parson.  They  had  been  good  friends  ever 
since  the  eccentric  interview  brought  about  by  Jack 
Mason's  valentine,  arid  when  charity  was  needed 
Eleanor  Winthrop's  heart  and  hand  were  always  ready 
for  service.  She  put  on  hat  and  shawl,  and  went  with 
the  parson  to  his  house,  hearing  on  the  way  all  the 
story. 

"  Mr.  Tucker,"  she  said,  as  he  finished  the  recital, 
"  aren't  you  going  to  make  much  trouble  for  yourself 
by  your  aggressive  honesty?" 

Thomas  looked  at  her,  bewildered. 

"  But  the  truth  is  to  be  spoken !  "  he  replied,  as  if 
that  were  the  end  of  the  controversy.  And  she  was 
silent,  recognizing  the  fact  that  here  conventions  were 
useless,  and  self-preservation  not  the  first  law  of  grace, 
if  it  is  of  nature. 

All  Mrs.  Winthrop's  kindliness  was  aroused  by  the 
pitiful  condition  of  Emily  Manning.  She  consoled  and 
counselled  her  like  a  mother,  and  soon  after  took  her 
into  her  household  as  governess  to  the  little  girls  whom 
Mr.  Wiuthrop's  first  wife  had  left  him  ;  making  for  the 
grateful  girl  a  happy  home,  which  in  after  years  she 
left  to  become  the  wife  of  a  good  man,  toward  whom 
she  felt  all  that  Parson  Tucker  had  required  of  her  on 
that  painful  day  which  she  hated  now  to  remember. 
And  as  the  parson  performed  this  ceremony  he  turned, 
after  the  benediction,  to  Eleanor  Winthrop,  and  said, 
with  a  beam  of  noble  triumph  on  his  hollow  visage, 
"  Blessed  be  the  Lord  !  I  have  saved  a  soul  alive  !  " 

But  long  before  this  happy  sequel  came  about  he 
had  other  opportunities  to  distinguish  himself.  There 
came  a  Sunday  when  the  service  of  infant  baptism  was 
to  be  performed ;  and  when  the  fair,  sweet  babes,  who 


196  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

had  behaved  with  unusual  decorum,  were  returned  to 
their  mothers'  arms,  and  the  parson,  according  to 
order,  said,  "  Let  us  pray,"  he  certainly  offered  the 
most  peculiar  petition  ever  heard  in  the  Green  Street 
church.  After  expressing  the  usual  desire  that  the 
baptized  children  might  grow  up  in  the  nurture  and 
admonition  of  the  Lord,  he  went  on  :  "  But  if  it  please 
thee,  O  Father,  to  recall  these  little  ones  to  thyself  in 
the  innocence  of  their  infancy,  we  will  rejoice  and  give 
thanks,  and  sound  thy  praises  upon  the  harp  and 
timbrel.  Yea !  with  the  whole  heart  we  will  praise 
thee  ;  for  we  know  the  tribulations  and  snares,  the 
evil  and  folly  and  anguish,  of  this  life  below  ;  and  we 
know  that  not  one  child  of  Adam,  coming  to  man's 
estate,  is  spared  that  bitter  and  woful  cup  that  is 
pressed  out  from  the  fruit  of  the  knowledge  of  good 
and  evil,  which  our  progenitors  ate  of  in  thy  garden  of 
Paradise,  and  thereby  sinned  and  fell,  and  bequeathed 
to  us  their  evil  longings  and  habitual  transgression. 
They  are  the  blessed  who  are  taken  away  in  their 
infancy,  and  lie  forever  by  green  pastures  and  still 
waters  in  the  fields  of  heaven.  We  ask  of  thee  no 
greater  or  better  gift  for  these  lambs  than  early  to  be 
folded  where  none  shall  hurt  or  destroy  in  all  thy  holy 
mountain,  and  the  love  that  is  above  all  mother's  love 
shall  cradle  them  throughout  eternity.  Amen !  " 

Not  a  mother  in  that  congregation  failed  to  shiver 
and  tremble  at  this  prayer,  and  tears  fell  fast  and 
thick  on  the  babes  who  slumbered  softly  in  the  tender 
arms  that  had  gathered  them  home,  after  consecrating 
them  to  that  God  whom  yet  they  were  so  unwilling 
should  literally  accept  their  offering.  Fifty  pairs  of 
eyes  were  turned  on  Parson  Tucker  with  the  look  of  a 


ACCOUNT   OF  THOMAS   TUCKER.  197 

bear  robbed  of  its  cubs ;  but  far  more  were  drowned 
in  tears  of  memory  and  regret,  poignant  still,  but 
strangely  soothed  b}r  this  vivid  presentation  of  the 
blessedness  wherein  their  loved  and  lost  were  safely 
abiding. 

Much  comment  was  exchanged  in  the  church  porch, 
after  service,  on  the  parson's  prayer. 

"  We  ought  to  hold  a  special  meeting  to  pray  that 
the  Lord  will  not  answer  such  a  petition !  "  cried  one 
indignant  mother,  whose  little  flock  were  clinging 
about  her  skirts,  and  who  had  left  twin  babies,  }-et  un- 
baptized,  at  home. 

"It  is  rather  hard  on  you,  aunty!  "  said  graceless 
Jack  Mason,  the  speaker's  nephew,  now  transformed 
into  an  unpromising  young  lawyer  in  Hartland. 
"  You'd  rather  have  your  babies  sin  and  suffer  with 
you  than  have  'em  safe  in  their  little  graves,  hadn't 
you?  I  don't  go  with  the  parson  myself.  I  didn't  so 
much  mind  his  funeral  gymnastic  over  old  Baker,  and 
his  disposition  of  that  party's  soul  in  Hades,  because  I 
never  before  supposed  Roosevelt  Baker  had  a  soul, 
and  it  was  quite  reassuring  to  be  cei'tain  he  met  with 
his  dues  somewhere  ;  but  he's  worse  than  Herod  about 
the  babies !  " 

However,  the  parson  did  not  hear  or  know  what  was 
said  of  him,  and  in  an  ignorance  that  was  indeed  bliss 
continued  to  preach  and  minister  to  his  people  in  strict 
accordance  with  his  own  views  of  duty.  His  next 
essay  was  a  pastoral  visit  to  one  of  his  flock,  recently 
a  widow,  a  woman  weak  in  body  and  mind  both ; 
desirous  above  all  things  to  be  proper  and  like  other 
people,  to  weep  where  she  must,  smile  when  she 
ought,  wear  clothes  like  the  advance-guard  of  fashion, 


108  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

and  do  "  the  thing"  to  be  done  always,  whether  it  was 
the  right  and  true  thing  or  not. 

Her  husband  had  spent  all  her  fortune  in  specu 
lation,  taken  to  drink  as  a  refuge  from  folly  and 
reproach  at  home,  and,  under  the  influence  of  the  con 
soling  fluid,  had  turned  his  wife  out-of-doors  whenever 
he  felt  in  the  mood ;  kicked  her,  beaten  her,  and 
forced  her,  in  fear  of  her  life,  over  and  over  to  steal 
from  her  own  house,  and  take  refuge  with  the  neigh 
bors,  and  ask  from  them  the  food  she  was  not  allowed 
at  home.  At  last  the  end  came.  Parson  Tucker  was 
sent  for  to  see  the  widow  and  an-ange  for  funeral  ser 
vices.  She  had  not  been  present  at  the  Baker  funeral, 
or  indeed  been  in  Deerford  for  some  years  after  that 
occasion,  so  she  adhered  to  the  conventions ;  and 
when  Parson  Tucker. reached  the  house  he  was  shown 
into  a  darkened  room,  where  the  disconsolate  woman 
sat  posed  already  in  deep  mourning,  a  widow's  cap 
perched  upon  her  small  head.  A  woman  would  have 
inferred  at  once  that  Mrs.  Spring  had  anticipated  the 
end  of  Joe's  last  attack  of  mania  a  potu,  and  pre 
pared  these  funeral  garments  beforehand  ;  but  Thomas 
Tucker  drew  no  such  conclusions.  He  sat  down  silently 
and  griml}-,  after  shaking  hands  with  Mrs.  Spring,  and 
said  nothing.  She  began  the  conversation  :  — 

"  This  is  a  dreadful  affliction,  Mr.  Tucker.  I  don't 
know  how  I  shall  live  through  it." 

"It  is  terrible,  indeed,"  said  the  parson.  "I  do 
not  wonder,  madam,  that  you  mourn  to  see  your  part 
ner  cut  off  in  his  sins,  without  time  for  repentance ; 
but  no  doubt  you  feel  with  gratitude  the  goodness 
which  hath  delivered  you  from  so  sore  a  burden." 

' '  What !  "  screamed  the  widow. 


ACCOUNT  OF  THOMAS   TUCKER.  199 

' '  I  speak  of  God's  mercy  in  removing  from  your  house 
one  who  made  your  life  a  terror,  and  your  days  full  of 
fear  and  suffering ;  you  might  have  been  as  others,  be 
reaved  and  desolate,  and  mourning  to  your  life's  end." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Parson  Tucker,"  said 
Mrs.  Spring,  sharply,  removing  a  dry  handkerchief 
from  unvvet  eyes.  "  Poor,  dear  Joseph  is  taken  away 
from  me,  and  I'm  left  a  desolate  widow,  and  you  talk 
in  this  way !  I'm  sure  he  had  the  best  of  hearts  that 
ever  was  ;  it  was  only,  as  }-ou  may  say,  accidental  to 
him  to  be  a  little  overcome  at  times,  and  I'm  —  I'm  — 
O-h!" 

Here  she  gave  a  little  hysterical  scream,  and  did  some 
well-executed  sobbing  ;  but  the  parson  did  not  mind  it. 
He  rose  up  before  her,  gaunt  and  gray.  "Madam, 
did  not  this  man  beat,  and  abuse,  and  insult,  and  starve 
3Tou,  when  he  was  living?  Or  have  I  been  misin 
formed  ?  " 

"  Well —     Oh,  dear,  what  dreadful  questions  !  " 

"  Did  he?  "  thundered  the  parson. 

"He  didn't  mean  to;  he  was  excited,  Mr.  Tucker. 
He"- 

"  He  was  drunk.  And  is  that  excuse?  Not  so, 
madam.  You  know,  and  I  know,  that  his  death  is  a 
relief  and  a  release  to  you.  I  cannot  condole  with  you 
on  that  which  is  not  a  sorrow  ;  "  and  he  walked  rigidly 
out  of  the  door. 

Is  it  necessary  to  say  that  Mr.  Spring's  funeral  did 
not  take  place  in  Deerford  ?  His  widow  suddenly  re 
membered  that  he  had  been  born  in  a  small  town  among 
the  hills  of  West  Massachusetts,  and  she  took  his  body 
thither,  to  be  "  laid  beside  his  dear  payreuts,"  as  she 
expressed  it. 


200  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

Things  had  now  come  to  a  bad  pass  for  Parson 
Tucker.  The  church  committee  had  held  more  than  one 
conference  over  their  duty  toward  him.  It  was  obvi 
ous  that  they  had  no  real  reason  for  dismissing  him  but 
his  ghastly  honesty,  and  that  hardly  offers  a  decent 
excuse  to  depose  a  minister  of  the  gospel.  They  hardly 
knew  how  to  face  the  matter,  and  were  in  this  state  of 
perplexity  when  Mr.  Tucker  announced,  one  Sunday, 
after  the  sermon,  that  he  would  like  to  see  the  church 
committee  at  his  study  on  Tuesday  night ;  and  accord 
ingly  they  assembled  there,  and  found  President  Win- 
throp  with  the  parson. 

"  Brethren,"  said  Thomas  Tucker,  after  the  prelim 
inary  welcome  had  passed,  "I  have  sent  for  you 
to-night  to  say,  that  having  now  been  settled  over 
your  church  eight  years,  I  have  found  the  salary  you 
pay  me  so  much  more  than  was  needed  for  my  bodily 
support  that  I  have  laid  by  each  year  as  the  surplus 
came  to  hand,  that  I  might  restore  to  you  your  goods. 
The  sum  is  now  something  over  eight  thousand  dollars, 
and  is  placed  to  the  credit  of  your  chairman,  in  the 
First  Deerford  Bank."  The  committee  stared  at  each 
other  as  if  each  one  were  trying  to  arouse  himself  from 
sleep.  The  chairman  at  last  spoke  :  — 

u  But,  Mr.  Tucker,  this  is  unheard  of !  The  salary 
is  yours ;  we  do  not  desire  to  take  it  back ;  we  can't 
do  it." 

"  That  which  I  have  not  earned,  Brother  Street,  is 
not  mine.  I  am  a  solitary  man ;  my  expenses  are 
light.  It  must  be  as  I  said.  Moreover,  I  have  to  say 
that  I  hereby  withdraw  from  your  pulpit,  of  necessitj*. 
I  have  dealt  with  our  best  physicians  concerning  a 
certain  anguish  of  the  breast,  which  seizes  me  at  times 


ACCOUNT  OF  THOMAS  TUCKER.     201 

unawares,  and  they  all  concur  that  an  evil  disease 
lieth  upon  me.  I  have  not  much  time  to  live,  and 
I  would  fain  withdraw  from  activities  and  duties 
that  are  external,  and  prepare  for  the  day  that  is  at 
hand." 

The  committee  were  pained  as  well  as  shocked. 
They  felt  guilty  to  think  how  they  had  plotted  this 
very  thing  among  themselves ;  and  they  felt,  too,  a 
certain  awe  and  deep  respect  for  this  simple,  unworldly 
nature,  this  supernatural  integrity.  Mr.  Street  spoke 
again  ;  his  voice  was  husky  :  — 

"If  this  is  so,  Mr.  Tucker,  we  must  of  course 
accept  your  resignation  ;  but,  my  dear  pastor,  keep  the 
mone}7 !  You  will  need  care  and  comforts,  now  thia 
trouble  has  come  on  you.  We  can't  take  it  back." 

Parson  Tucker  looked  at  him  with  a  grave,  sweet 
smile.  "  I  thank  you,  brother,  but  I  have  a  private 
store.  My  sister  left  her  worldly  goods  to  me,  and 
there  is  enough  and  to  spare  for  my  short  sojourn,''  he 
answered. 

"  But  it  isn't  according  to  the  fitness  of  things  that 
we  should  take  your  salary  back,  Parson  Tucker,"  put 
in  bustling  Mr.  Taylor.  "  What  upon  earth  should  we 
do  with  it?" 

"  Friend,"  said  the  parson,  "  the  eternal  fitness  of 
things  is  but  the  outcome  of  their  eternal  verity.  I 
have  not,  as  I  said,  earned  that  wage,  and  I  must 
restore  it :  it  is  for  you  to  decide  what  end  it  shall 
serve  in  the  church." 

A  few  more  words  passed  between  them,  and  then 
each  wrung  the  parson's  hand  and  left  him,  not  all  with 
unmoved  hearts  or  dry  eyes. 

"  I  don't  wonder  he's  going  to  die  !  "  exclaimed  Mr. 


202  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

Street,  as  the  committee  separated  at  a  street  corner. 
"  He's  altogether  too  honest  to  live  !  " 

From  that  day  Thomas  Tucker  sank  quietly  toward 
his  grave.  Friends  swarmed  about  him,  and  if  delica 
cies  of  food  could  have  saved  him  the  dainty  stores 
poured  in  upon  him  would  have  renewed  his  youth  ;  but 
all  was  in  vain. 

President  Winthrop  sat  by  him,  one  summer  day, 
and,  seeing  a  sad  gleam  in  his  sunken  eye,  asked  gently, 
"  You  are  ready  and  willing  to  go,  Brother  Tucker?" 
nothing  doubting  a  glad  assent. 

But  the  parson  was  honest  to  the  last.  "  No,"  he 
said,  "  I  do  not  want  to  die  ;  I  am  afraid.  I  do  not 
like  strange  and  new  things.  I  do  not  want  to  leave 
my  books  and  my  study." 

"But,  dear  brother,"  broke  in  the  astonished  presi 
dent,  "  it  is  a  going  home,  to  your  Father's  house  !  " 

"  I  ki>ow  not  what  a  home  is,  friend,  in  the  sense  of 
regret  or  longing  for  one.  My  early  home  was  but  as 
the  egg  to  the  bird,  a  prison  wherein  I  was  born,  from 
which  I  fled ;  nor  was  my  knowledge  of  a  father  one 
that  commends  itself  as  a  type  of  good.  I  trust, 
indeed,  that  the  Master  will  take  me  by  the  hand,  even 
as  he  did  Peter  upon  the  water ;  but  the  utterance  of 
my  secret  soul  is  even  that  of  the  apostle  with  the  keys  : 
'  Lord,  save,  or  I  perish ! ' ' 

"  But  you  have  been  a  power  for  good,  and  a  close 
follower  of  Peter's  Lord,"  said  Mr.  Wiuthrop,  alto 
gether  at  a  loss  for  the  proper  thing  to  say  to  this 
peculiar  man. 

"One  thing  alone  have  I  been  enabled  to  do,  Brother 
Winthrop,  for  which  I  can  with  heart  and  soul  thank 
God,  even  at  this  hour.  Yea,  I  thank  him  that  I  have 


ACCOUNT   OF  THOMAS   TUCKER.  203 

been  enabled  to  speak  the  truth  even  in  the  face  of  lies 
and  deceptions,  through  his  upholding."  A  smile  of 
unearthly  triumph  filled  every  line  of  the  wasted  face, 
and  lit  his  eyes  with  a  flash  of  divine  light  as  he  said 
this.  He  grasped  close  the  friendly  hand  he  was  hold 
ing,  turned  his  cheek  to  the  pillow,  and  closed  his  eyes, 
passing  into  that  life  of  truth  and  love  that  awaited 
him,  even  as  a  child  that  lies  down  in  the  darkness, 
trembling,  fearful,  and  weary,  but  awakes,  in  the  dawn 
of  a  new  day,  in  the  heart  of  home. 

"  Still,"  said  President  Winthrop  to  his  wife,  as  they 
walked  home  after  the  funeral,  "  I  believe  in  the  good 
old  proverb,  Eleanor,  that '  the  truth  is  not  to  be  spoken 
at  all  times.' " 

"  And  I  never  believed  in  it  so  little ! "  she  cried, 
indignantly.  "  Think  what  a  record  he  has  left ;  what 
respect  hangs  about  his  memory !  Do  we  know  how 
many  weak  souls  have  relied  on  his  example,  and  held 
to  the  truth  when  it  was  hard,  because  he  did  and 
could  ?  It  is  something  to  be  heroic  in  these  days,  even 
if  it  is  unpopular  !  " 

The  president  shrugged  his  shoulders. 


204  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 


THE    FORGER'S    BRIDE. 


A  VERY  soft  April  day,  now  and  then  chilled  by  the 
wind  off  snow-drifts  that  spotted  the  hills  even  after  a 
rainy  morning,  was  about  half  over  as  Sally  Tyler 
came  up  from  the  village  street  to  the  red  house  where 
she  lived.  She  was  extremely  pretty :  her  features 
delicate  and  straight,  her  dark  eyes  sweet,  her  blue- 
black  hair  glossy  ;  and  now  a  little  wild-rose  bloom  on 
her  cheek,  and  a  deeper  crimson  than  usual  on  her 
lips,  made  her  look  like  a  flower  with  a  white  hood 
on. 

She  was  evidently  much  engrossed  by  some  new 
thought  or  plan,  for  she  did  not  stoop  to  pat  the  old 
yellow  dog  who  raised  himself  on  his  fore  legs  and 
slobbered  a  welcome  as  he  lay  in  the  sunshine  ;  nor  did 
she  notice  the  threatening  scream  of  a  hen-hawk  that 
circled  high  in  air  above  her  tiny  brood  of  early 
chickens  ;  or  even  look  at  the  golden  crocus  that  hnd 
sprung  from  the  black  mould  of  her  posy-bed,  a  cup  of 
sudden  sunlight  since  last  night ;  but  took  her  way 
round  to  the  back  door,  for  nobody  in  New  England 
country  villages  uses  the  front  door,  except  for  wed 
dings  or  funerals.  Man}'  a  house  have  I  seen  whose 
entire  front  half,  with  its  darkened  and  musty  parlors, 
and  its  "  spare  chambers,"  smelling  of  ill-dried  feathers, 
fennel,  and  green  mould,  might  have  been  sliced  away 


THE  FORGER'S  BRIDE.  205 

and  carried  off,  nowise  to  the  detriment,  and  perhaps 
even  without  the  knowledge,  of  the  inhabitants  behind. 

So  Sally  followed  the  worn  foot-track,  past  scraggy 
lilacs  and  sprawling  cinnamon  rose-bushes,  round  the 
house,  and  went  in  to  the  door  of  the  back  kitchen, 
where  at  the  sink  her  mother  stood  chopping  some  cold 
potatoes.  Sally  was  an  only  child,  but  her  mother  was 
so  haunted  by  the  one  fear  of  spoiling  her  that  she 
sometimes  went  too  far  the  other  way.  The  poor  little 
girl  was  "  tutored,"  as  she  said,  till  she  was  weary  and 
aching,  — aching  for  a  little  of  the  deep,  real  love  that 
lay  hidden  away  in  her  mother's  heart,  very  much  as 
the  best  parlor  and  bedroom  were  shut  up :  there,  no 
doubt,  but  useless  and  unseen.  To-day,  as  usual,  the 
first  words  were  reproof  :  — 

"I  told  you  there  was  too  many  pertaters  biled 
yesterday,  Sally,  'n  now  I've  got  to  chop  'em  for  dinner, 
and  chopped  pertater  aint  real  good  'long  o'  salt  beef : 
you'd  ought  to  be  more  considerin'.  Supposin*  you 
was  to  git  married,  and  hev  to  see  to  the  work  your 
self,  I  guess  your  husband'd  come  to  woful  want  pretty 
surprisin'  quick." 

Sally  sighed  a  little,  but  said  nothing.  She  had 
learned  how  to  hold  her  tongue  at  least,  —  perhaps  a 
better  preparation  for  marriage  than  the  economizing 
of  potatoes.  Nor  did  she  blush  at  her  mother's  illus 
tration  of  her  discourse,  for  in  Wingfield  there  was 
nobody  who  could  be  called  a  beau  for  her :  all  the 
well-to-do  farmers'  sons  had  emigrated  from  its  bar 
ren  hill-sides,  and  the  hired  men  were  more  often 
Irish  than  any  other,  or,  if  Yankees,  of  the  very  lowest 
class. 

She  waited  a  minute  till  the  noise  of  the  chopping- 


206  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

knife  ceased  and  the  potatoes  were  turned  into  the 
spider,  and  then  said,  shyly  :  — 

"  Mother,  I  went  to  the  post-office  after  I'd  carried 
the  eggs,  and  I  got  a  letter  from  Cousin  Jerushy." 

"  Do  tell !  "  said  Mrs.  Tyler,  for  a  moment  holding 
the  big  iron  spoon  suspended  from  her  hand.  "  Why, 
we  haint  heerd  from  Jerushy  quite  a  spell.  How  is  all 
her  folks?" 

"  They're  all  well,  she  says  ;  only  Grandmother  Dyke 
has  had  a  long  spell  of  rheumatiz.  They've  got  a 
bigger  tenement  now,  and  Jerushy  wants  me  to  come 
and  stay  with  her  for  a  while." 

Mrs.  Tyler  stirred  the  potatoes  so  vigorously  that 
Sally  hardly  dared  to  venture  farther,  but  she  did 
whisper,  half  audibly  :  — 

"  Can  I  go,  mother?" 

Mrs.  Tyler  was  what  the  transcendentalists  call 
"  antagonistic,"  and  her  neighbors,  "  dreadful  arbi 
trary."  Her  first  impulse  was  to  contradict  every 
assertion  and  refuse  every  request.  Of  course,  con 
venience  and  policy,  and  various  other  motives,  better 
or  worse,  obliged  her  to  come  round  to  assertions  and 
requests  full  half  the  time  ;  but  it  was  a  weary  and 
delayed  victory  that  the  opposite  side  gained,  —  one  of 
those  conquests  almost  as  undesirable  as  a  defeat. 
Her  husband,  with  a  shrewdness  men  do  not  often 
arrive  at  in  dealing  with  this  not  uncommon  t}'pe  of 
women,  always  took  care  to  say  and  ask  nothing  im 
portant  if  it  could  be  helped,  or  otherwise  to  offer  her 
the  exact  converse  of  his  wishes.  True,  like  all  ma 
noeuvres,  this  sometimes  worked  its  own  defeat,  from 
her  habit  of  giving  in  at  last ;  and  then  the  squire 
shook  his  grizzled  head  and  muttered  to  himself,  wind- 


THE  FORGER'S  BRIDE.  207 

ing  up  with  a  whistled  psalm-tune,  generally  his  best 
expression  of  doubt  or  consternation. 

But  to-day  Mrs.  Tyler  was  somewhat  softened  by 
Sally's  shy  look  and  tone,  though  of  course  she  put  out 
a  sharp  negative  at  first :  — 

"  No,  you  can't.  I  don't  see  how  you  can  think 
on't.  Jest  layin'-thne,  'n  all  them  hens  to  look  after, 
'n  set,  'n  feed ;  'n  two  calves  in  the  barn.  Well,  I 
s'pose  I  might  see  to  them  things  myself"  (she  always 
would)  ;  "  but  he  won't  hear  to't,  I  know.  I  don't  know 
but  what  I'd  like  to  have  ye  go  to  see  Jerushy  ;  she's 
a  smart  woman,  and  a  pretty  woman  as  ever  I  see." 
(Mrs.  Jerusha  Phelps  had  about  as  much  beauty  as  a 
chimpanzee,  but  "  pretty  "  means  only  pleasant  and 
well-mannered  in  our  vernacular.)  u  I  guess  you 
might  go  ef  you  had  two  new  gowns.  You  haint  got 
really  nothing  fit  to  stay  a  spell,  'u  I  expect  he  won't 
want  to  give  you  no  money.  Well,  it's  nigh  about 
dinner-time,  'n  you  might  step  out  to  the  barn  'n 
call  him — it'll  save  me  a-blowin'  the  horn —  and  you 
can  settle  it,  maybe,  'fore  you  come  in.  I  don't  want 
to  have  to  jaw  to  the  table :  I  like  to  eat  'n  be  done 
with  it." 

In  her  secret  heart  Mrs.  Tyler  knew  that  she  didn't 
want  to  come  into  collision  with  the  squire  if  he  assented, 
or  to  give  up  her  reluctant  willingness  to  fight  it  out 
strenuously  if  he  said  no ;  but,  as  Sally  replaced  her 
hood  and  shawl  and  opened  the  outer  door,  her  mother 
called  after  her :  — 

"Don't  forget  to  tell  him  you've  got  to  be  fixed  off 
to  go,  child.  I  expect  he'll  growl  some,  but  the  tcr- 
backer  did  real  well  last  year,  'n  he's  a-packin'  on't 
now." 


208  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

There  was  a  world  of  policy  in  this  last  remark, 
quite  lost  on  simple  Sally ;  so  she  trudged  out  to  the 
big  barn  on  the  hill-side,  and,  stepping  in  at  the  little 
side  door,  threaded  her  way  over  milking-stools,  pitch 
forks,  wisps  of  hay,  and  all  the  nameless  litter  of  an 
ill-kept  barn,  to  the  wide  ha}T-floor,  where  her  father 
and  Peter,  the  hired  Irishman,  sat  packing  tobacco. 
Squire  Tyler  was  a  good  specimen  of  an  eldei^ly 
Yankee  farmer ;  his  fine  head  was  covered  with  iron- 
gray  hair,  curling  all  over  it  in  spite  of  him ;  his  face 
was  wrinkled,  but  sagacious  and  kindly  ;  while  all  the 
shrewdness  ascribed  to  his  race  twinkled  in  the  deep- 
set  eyes,  half  lost  under  their  big,  shaggy  brows.  He 
was  a  quaint  old  creature,  as  far  as  his  domestic  life 
went,  but  nobody  made  more  acute  bargains  than  he, 
or  understood  better  how  to  take  the  top  wave  of  fluct 
uating  prices  and  come  off  with  flying  colors  just 
before  his  delaying  neighbors  lost  all  their  ventures. 
He  loved  Sally  better  than  anything  else,  and  his 
Devon  cows  next ;  his  wife  came  somewhere  lower 
down  in  the  scale,  it  is  true,  but  that  was  her  own 
fault ;  twenty  years  of  persistent  nagging  and  contra 
dicting  will  somewhat  stunt  the  growth  even  of  a  real 
affection,  and  whatever  of  love  still  lingered  in  this 
matrimonial  tie  had  its  balance  altogether  on  the  wife's 
side.  Now,  as  he  looked  up  and  saw  Sally  leaning 
against  the  door,  her  white  hood  fallen  off,  and  her 
face  glowing  with  her  walk  and  her  errand,  all  his 
wrinkles  and  puckers  vanished  into  a  smile  of  welcome, 
and  the  sharp  eyes  softened  at  once. 

"Hullo,  Sally!"  shouted  he:  "what  be  you 
after?" 

"  O   father,    please !     I   had    a  letter  from    Cousin 


THE  FORGER'S  BRIDE.  209 

Jerushy "  —  Here  she  stopped  a  minute  to  take 
breath. 

"  Well,  that  aint  no  great  thing  to  hev,  is  it?  I 
thought  mother  was  kind  o'  down  on  Jerushy,  or  you 
•was,  or  somethin'  or  'nother." 

"  Oh,  not  me  !  And,  father,  she  wants  me  to  come 
to  Westboro'  and  see  her  a  spell ;  and  say,  father, 
can't  I  go?" 

Sally  gave  these  last  words  in  the  true  coaxing 
whine,  and  the  squire  looked  up  and  laughed. 

"  You  haint  set  your  mind  on't  none,  hev  you,  Sal?" 

"  I  kinder  have,  father." 

"  What  does  mother  saj'  to't,  eh?" 

"  Well,  she  said  I  couldn't,  'n  then  she  said  maybe 
I  could  if  I  had  some  new  things ;  but  I  can't  go 
unless  I  do." 

The  squire  was  purse-bearer  evidently,  and  he 
began  to  tease  Sally  a  bit.  "Well,  there's  more'n 
four  new  things  around  here  't  you  can  hev  if  you 
won't  spile  'era  ;  there's  a  new  halter  in  that  stall,  'n 
a  new  corn-basket ;  'n  I've  got  a  fire-new  axe  to 
the  house,  'f  that'll  help  ye  any  "  — 

"Why,  father!  'taint  those  kind  of  things  I  want; 
it's  new  gowns,  and  a  hat,  and  "  — 

"  What'n  thunder  do  you  want  a  hat  for?  Can't 
you  wear  a  decent  bunnet,  'n  not  put  a  tin  pan  with 
streamers  a-top  of  your  head,  like  them  darned  fools 
of  Euckers?" 

"Why,  I  don't  mean  such  a  hat  as  that;  I  mean  a 
big  one'  to  keep  the  sun  out  of  my  eyes.  I've  just  got 
a  new  bunnet." 

"  Sun  won't  hurt  your  eyes  none,  —  they  aint  ever- 
lastin'  bright,  anyway,  —  but  I  guess  you  can  hev 


210  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

1  things,'  as  you  call  'em,  'nough  to  go  to  Westboro'. 
An'  seeing  you  can't  get  'em  without  money,  why,  I 
expect  I'll  hev  to  give  ye  some.  I'm  a  dreadful  near 
old  critter  or'uarily,  ye  know,  but  this  here  terbacker 
crop  has  kinder  drawed  out  my  heart,  'n  I  won't 
grudge  you  some  on't." 

With  which  speech  the  squire  unlatched  his  pocket- 
book  and  fingered  out  from  its  capacious  depths  dirty 
bills  to  the  amount  of  twenty  dollars,  which  he  handed 
to  Sally,  now  drawn  near  enough  to  look  over  his 
shoulder ;  and  was  himself  more  astonished  in  his 
turn  than  she  by  the  hearty  hug  she  gave  him. 

"Good  land!  what's  that  for,  you  young  critter? 
Haint  been  hugged  so  this  forty  year.  Had  to  pay 
for't,  though,  didn't  I?  Well!  well!  go  'long,  gal, 
when  you  git  ready,  and  hev  a  first-rate  time ;  bat 
don't  you  go  to  fetchin'  any  o'  them  young  fellers  out 
of  the  iron- works  home  arter  ye.  I  don't  believe  in 
luggin'  a  gal  through  teethin,"  n  measles,  'n  all  sorts 
o'  knot-holes,  'n  hevin'  the  first  sassy  chap  't  comes 
along  go  'n  take  her  off,  'fore  you've  had  a  speck  of 
comfort  out  on  her." 

Luckily  the  horn  blew  at  this  moment  both  loud 
and  long,  —  irate  signal  of  a  domestic  tempest  brewing 
in  the  house,  —  and  drove  her  father's  caution  quite 
out  of  Sally's  head,  —  innocent  little  head  !  that  had 
not  even  remembered  before  that  there  were  iron 
works  or  workers  in  Westboro',  much  less  young  men. 

"Whew!"  involuntarily  sputtered  the  squire,  as 
"the  sound  of  that  dread  horn"  fell  upon  his  preter- 
naturally  sensitive  ear. 

Sally  ran  faster  than  his  walk,  but  she  stopped  to  wait 
for  him  behind  the  great  water-butt,  and  smiled  to  her- 


THE  FORGER'S  BRIDE.  211 

self  as  she  heard  him  whistling  "  Dundee"  with  great 
earnestness.  She  was  so  happy  she  could  afford  to 
smile,  even  at  the  objurgations  that  met  them  both, 
little  calculated  as  those  sonorous  remarks  were  to 
sweeten  the  dinner.  However,  the  meal,  like  all  New 
England  penances  of  that  sort,  was  soon  over,  and 
nothing  was  said  between  the  parents  of  Sally's  pro 
posed  journey  ;  only  that  night,  just  as  the  squire  was 
ail  but  asleep,  Mrs.  Tyler  suddenly  came  down  upon 
him. 

"  So  you  went  and  let  Sally  go  to  Westboro',  arter 
all,  husband?  "  in  a  tone  of  mingled  remonstrance  and 
surprise. 

"She  aint  gone  yit,"  growled  the  squire,  " 'n  I 
don't  care  a  darn  if  she  goes  or  stays.  I  kind  o'  like 
to  hev  her  round  sometimes,  but  if  she's  a  mind  to  go, 
wh}",  I  don't  care,  only  I  aint  a-goin'  to  have  no  young 
fellers  a-follerin'  on  her  home  ;  'n  you  kin  jest  drop  a 
line  to  Jerushy  and  say  so." 

"  I  shan't  do  no  such  thing." 

So  the  squire  went  to  sleep,  discreetly. 

Sally  was  what  some  wise  people  would  call  foolishly 
happy  for  the  next  week.  I  don't  know  how  much 
folly  there  was  in  her  pleasure.  I  have  seen  rapture 
that  was-  ingrain  foolishness ;  I  have  seen  despair 
quite  as  senseless ;  and  I  have  my  doubts,  after  all,  if 
there  is  a  much  purer  or  simpler  kind  of  happiness 
extant  than  danced  in  this  sweet  little  girl's  eyes  and 
shone  on  her  fair  face  in  prospect  of  this  first  visit 
and  her  wonderful  preparations  for  it ;  for  she  not  only 
had  a  new  gray  mousseline  de  laine  and  delicate 
lilac  calico,  but  her  mother  actually  presented  her  with 


212  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

the  dark  green  silk  that  had  been  her  own  wedding- 
dress,  fortunately  plain  and  thick,  but  altogether  too 
strait  for  the  goodly  proportions  of  Mrs.  Tyler  now ; 
requiring  even  every  scrap  of  the  long  "  cardinal"  she 
had  worn  with  it  to  eke  out  a  dress  for  Sally.  Then 
there  were  her  white  cambric  dress  and  her  old  brown 
gingham.  What  more  could  she  need  or  want?  But 
the  squire,  going  into  Middletown  to  soil  off  some  of 
his  young  stock,  brought  home  a  parcel  and  flung  it 
into  her  lap. 

"There  !  "  said  he,  "  that's  Juno's  calf.  'Taint  half 
so  good-lookin'  as  her  shiny  red  skin  ;  but  I  guess  you'd 
ruther  put  it  on  your  back,  so  I  swapped." 

Eager  hands  unrolled  the  parcel,  and  there  lay  a  soft 
white  shawl  and  a  handful  of  ribbons,  —  delicate  pink, 
tender  green,  and  shades  of  aster  color,  with  one  trail 
of  scarlet  flashing  through  all.  Sally  was  too  happy  to 
speak. 

Why  can't  we  make  people  happy  oftener  when  they 
are  young  and  simple  enough  to  be  made  so?  At  forty, 
what  are  gowns,  or  shawls,  or  ribbons?  But  what  are 
they  not  at  sixteen  ? 

At  last  the  old  cowskin  trunk  was  packed,  and  Sally 
seated  in  the  stage  that  was  to  take  her  over  the  hills 
to  the  railway  station. 

"  Good-by,  mother  !     Good-by,  father  ! " 

Mrs.  Tyler  only  nodded. 

"Good-by,  little  gal!"  shouted  the  squire,  mutter 
ing,  as  he  turned  away,  "  I  shall  kind  o'  hanker  arter 
her,  I  swow  !  I  guess  I'll  go  'u  look  arter  that  new 
heifer." 

So  Sally  went  safely  off,  and  after  a  short  drive  and 
a  long  car-ride  found  herself  at  Westboro',  and  Cousin 


THE  FORGER'S  BRIDE.  213 

JerusLnr  all  ready  to  receive  her  at  the  station,  as  well 
as  her  husband,  whom  Sally  had  never  seen,  —  a  tall, 
serious-looking  man,  as  quiet  as  his  wife  was  gay. 
As  soon  as  our  little  friend  became  known  in  Westboro' 
she  also  became,  without  knowing  it,  a  social  success  : 
she  was  so  pretty  and  delicate  and  fresh,  and  Cousin 
Jerushy  always  so  popular,  that  a  round  of  tea-parties 
and  picnics  and  drives  set  in  directly,  till  Sally  thought 
she  had  never  been  in  so  delightful  a  place  before. 

Westboro'  is  a  pretty  village  on  a  hill-side,  beneath 
which  runs  a  bright  river,  all  its  shores  below  the  dam, 
on  the  village  side,  guarded  by  a  huge  rampart  of 
workshops,  where  the  trip-hammers  clanged  all  day, 
and  swarthy  men  with  strong  arms  worked  wonderful 
results  out  of  the  dull  masses  of  iron  before  them. 

These  "  shops,"  as  they  called  them,  were  a  dreadful 
institution  to  Sally  :  she  was  taken  through  them  as  the 
proper  thing  to  do,  but  the  furnaces  and  the  hammers 
and  the  noise  so  confounded  and  frightened  her  that 
she  was  glad  to  get  away  to  the  cool  green  hill-side 
again  and  play  with  Jerushy 's  children.  But  many  an 
admiring  eye  followed  her  progress  among  the  forges  ; 
and  that  very  evening  no  less  than  three  spruce  young 
men  —  all  known  to  Mrs.  Phelps,  it  is  true,  but  not 
usually  so  attentive  —  called  at  her  house.  Sally  did 
not  recognize  the  Vulcans  she  saw  in  the  morning  in 
these  washed  and  shaven  and  adorned  youths  ;  she 
only  thought  them  very  pleasant  and  kind.  But  after 
that  it  was  surprising  to  see  how  popular  Mrs.  Phelps 
grew ;  how  many  calls  she  had  of  an  evening,  while 
her  unconscious  little  cousin  sat  and  smiled  and  talked, 
and  behaved  herself  as  a  wild-rose  might,  transmi 
grated  into  a  young  woman. 


214  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

A  great  many  drives  and  walks  Sally  had,  but  after 
a  while  one  gray  horse  seemed  to  her  quite  the  best 
and  gentlest  she  had  ever  known  ;  and  of  all  the  \vild- 
flowers  given  and  sent  her  one  basket  of  trailing  arbu 
tus  surpassed  all  others.  There  were  pinker  clusters 
and  larger  flowers  and  bigger  bunches,  but  the  birch- 
bark  basket,  with  its  mossy  covering,  was  so  graceful, 
and  the  flowers  so  fresh  and  so  deftly  arranged ;  and 
then  they  were  all  gathered  in  her  favorite  walk, —  a 
path  in  the  woods  by  the  river-side,  so  shaded  and 
fresh,  and  sweet  with  such  vernal  odors  as  were  never 
known  to  the  bare  hills  of  Wingfield. 

It  was  rather  odd  that  this  was  Joe  Dyer's  favorite 
walk  also ;  that  he  owned  that  gray  horse  and  made 
that  birch  basket.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  odder 
still  if  Sally  had  not  liked  him  even  better  than  his 
gifts  and  belongings ;  for  he  was  a  good-tempered, 
handsome,  gay  young  fellow,  with  overflowing  spirits, 
a  quick  temper,  and  a  kind  heart ;  as  lovable  and  hon 
est  as  a  child,  yet  with  all  a  man's  resolute  will, 
strength,  and  fidelity.  And  Joe  liked  Sally ;  he  had 
flirted  with  a  dozen  of  the  village  girls  and  loved  none 
of  them.  This  shy,  simple,  sweet  little  country  maiden 
was  altogether  different  from  the  romping,  boisterous 
creatures  that  are  the  growth  of  a  manufacturing  town  ; 
and,  for  a  wonder,  her  voice,  too,  was  sweet  and  low,  — 
a  thing  rare  enough  among  New  England  girls. 

Under  the  circumstances  it  was  hardly  strange  that 
Joe's  liking  and  Sally's,  with  no  intrusive  elements 
about  them,  and  the  kindliest  encouragement  on 
Jerushy's  part,  should  have  ripened  into  a  real  honest 
love.  Jerushy  knew  that  Joe  was  a  young  fellow  of 
thoroughly  good  character,  earning  high  wages,  and 


THE  FORGER'S  BRIDE,  215 

considered  it  a  happy  ordination  of  Providence  that 
brought  him  and  Sully  together ;  and  when  it  was  time 
for  Sally  to  go,  and  Joe  appeared  at  the  cars,  Jerushy 
discreetly  turned  her  head  and  appeared  not  to  hear 
that  perfectly  audible  whisper:  "Dearest  Sally,  may 
I  write  you  a  letter?" 

But  I  am  afraid  she  heard,  nevertheless,  from  the 
very  significant  speech  that  followed  her  good-by  kiss 
of  Sally's  pensive,  blushing  face  :  — 

"  I  expect  you  won't  stay  away  a  dreadful  long 
while  from  Westboro',  Sally  ;  and  you'll  be  just  as 
welcome  as  summer-time  when  you  do  come  back." 

To  which  Sally  only  returned  as  an  answer  a  deeper 
blush  and  a  dimpling  smile. 

It  would  be  impertinent  to  inquire  what  were  Sally's 
meditations  in  the  cars  ;  they  are  open  to  conjecture ; 
but  when  she  arrived  at  the  station  where  her  father 
was  to  meet  her,  and,  after  a  welcome,  according  to 
his  own  chestnut-burr  fashion,  of  a  growl  and  a  kiss,  was 
safely  set  beside  him  in  the  wagon,  the  squire  looked 
round  at  her  with  a  piercing  stare,  and  expressed  his 
opinion  in  the  premises  :  — 

"  Well,    seems   as   if  you'd  growed  kind  o'  good- 
lookin',  child.     Had  a  good  time?" 
""  O  father,  perfectly  splendid  !  " 

"I  want  to  know!  Any  young  fellers  down  to 
Westboro'  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  with  a  fresh  blush,  for  her  pure  skin 
showed  the  heart-beats  underneath  with  a  lovely  but 
annoying  facility. 

"  Any  on  'em  ask  ye  to  marry  'em?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

O  Sally !  Sally  !  was  that  the  letter  or  the  spirit  of 


216  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

truth?  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  both,  for  she  felt  the 
sudden  scarlet  burn  all  her  face,  from  the  very  folds 
of  shining  hair  down  to  and  through  the  white  throat 
below. 

Happily  the  squire's  critical  eye  surveyed  at  that 
moment  a  piece  of  newly  ploughed  land,  though  he 
went  on  with  his  conversation  :  — 

"  Left  your  words  behind,  haint  ye?  Jerush'  allers 
was  a  master-hand  to  talk,  'n  I  expect  you've  larnt  how 
to  keep  still ;  'n  that's  fust  principles  for  women-folks. 
I  never  see  furrows  run  like  them  on  that  hill-lot,  — 
they're  all  cuterin'.  Oughter  be  ashamed  on't.  "Well, 
little  cretur,  be  ye  glad  to  get  home?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  father  !  "  with  a  very  genuine  love-look 
and  smile. 

"  No  desp'rit  harm  done,  I  guess." 

"  How's  mother,  father?  —  and  the  chickens?" 

"  Mother's  real  well,  'n  spry  as  ever.  She's  follered 
up  them  old  hens  till  they  da'sn't  call  their  souls  their 
own  another  minnit,  'n  went  to  settin'  like  sixty,  jest 
to  get  rid  on  her.  There's  more'u  six  broods.  Git  up, 
old  hoss  !  we  must  be  a-joggin' ;  "  and  in  half  an  hour 
more  they  were  at  home. 

"  Well,  here  ye  be,  Sally  !  I'd  kind  o'  gin  ye  up  ; 
thought  you  didn't  mean  to  come  at  all,  maybe." 

"Why,  mother!  I'm  sure  you  said  I  might  stay 
till  this  week." 

"  Well,  if  I  did,  I  didn't  lot  on  your  stayin'  till 
Wednesday.  Come,  child,  take  off  your  things  and 
stir  round  ;  it's  'most  tea-time  ;  "  and  with  a  cold  kiss, 
that  agreed  well  with  her  welcome,  Mrs.  Tyler  returned 
to  her  rag-piecing  as  if  life  and  breath  depended  on  it, 
though  her  heart  really  glowed  within  her  at  the  sight 


THE  FORGER'S  BRIDE.  217 

of  her  child's  fair  young  face ;  but  she  had  held  the 
mother-love  in  fetters  so  long  that  it  was  too  cramped 
to  assert  its  strength  even  on  an  occasion  of  special 
demand  like  this. 

Sally  went  upstairs  with  a  wistful  quiver  on  her  lips. 
What  a  pleasant  time  she  had  had  at  Westboro' !  How 
kind  everybody  was  !  how  glad  to  see  her  !  And  then, 
there  was  that  letter, — a  bright  spot  of  sunshine  in 
the  chilly  dulness  of  home.  Oh,  when  would  it  come? 
The  weapons  Mrs.  Tyler  had  so  long  been  forming 
against  herself  were  to-day  set  in  Sally's  unconscious 
grasp,  and  she  used  them.  It  is  the  young  soul's 
instinct  to  hunger  after  love,  and  bitterly  are  those  to 
blame  —  more  bitter  is  their  punishment  —  who  starve 
it  at  home  and  drive  it  out  to  wander  after  food. 

If  the  postmaster  at  Wingfield  had  not  been  a  deaf 
and  gruff  old  man,  who  had  no  curiosity  left  in  his 
wilted  soul,  he  could  not  have  failed  to  wonder  at 
Sally's  persistent  haunting  of  the  "  store  "  where  his 
pigeon-holes  were  fixed ;  and  Sally's  ingenuity  was 
taxed  for  a  week  to  find  daily  pretexts  for  her  stroll 
toward  the  few  clustered  houses  that  were  the  nucleus 
of  the  village ;  but  at  last  she  was  rewarded.  If  Joe 
had  been  dela}red  by  a  sudden  journey  on  business  at 
the  express  orders  of  his  foreman,  the  letter  was  at 
least  worth  waiting  for:  it  was  short,  strong,  and 
earnest, —  a  true  man's  letter ;  and  not  the  less  precious 
to  Sail}'  that  she  felt  a  sort  of  pride  in  it.  But  if  her 
joy  had  come,  so  came  the  trouble,  hand  in  hand.  As 
she  walked  along  the  green  path  homeward,  the  little 
white  sun-bonnet  shading  her  face,  utterly  absorbed  in 
reading  and  re-reading  the  blessed  epistle,  not  having 
the  prudence  or  worldly  wisdom  to  hide  it  in  her  pocket 


218  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

and  read  it  at  some  other  and  more  fit  time,  she  felt  a 
hand  laid  on  her  shoulder,  and  there  was  her  father. 
Goodness  !  how  she  colored ! 

"  What  ye  got  there,  so  all-fired  interesting  Sally? 
Jerushy  ben  a-writin'  on  ye  some  more  ?  " 

"  No,  father." 

"  What  be  ye  a-colorin'  up  for  so,  jest  like  our  old 
turkey?  'Taint  none  o'  them  Westboro'  chaps  ben 
a-sendin'  ye  love-letters,  be  it?" 

The  squire  spoke  in  jest,  but  his  word  was  true. 

"O  father!" 

"  The  Lord  above  !  Ef  I  haint  hit  the  nail  smack 
on  the  head  this  time !  Come,  Sally,  let  your  old 
father  see  it.  I  don't  allow  no  fellers  to  go  a-writin'  to 
my  girl  'thout  I  know  some  thin'  who  they  be,  fust." 

There  was  no  place  for  Sally  to  escape  ;  disobey  she 
dare  not.  Her  hand  shook  with  apprehension  as  well 
as  emotion  when  she  put  the  fair  sheet  in  the  squire's 
hand,  and  her  eyelids  quivered  with  half-shed  tears  as 
she  watched  his  inflexible  visage. 

"  Darn  it  all !  he's  got  brass  enough  for  a  meetin'- 
house  bell !  Wants  to  marry  ye  a'ready,  'n  haint 
known  ye  but  about  three  weeks  :  shows  he's  a  fool  on 
the  face  on't.  Now  I  s'pose  you  think  he's  a  real  smart 
chap.  Why,  Sally!  a-cryin',  my  little  gal?  Don't 
mean  to  tell  me  you  like  the  critter  so  much  ?  Well, 
well,  well,  I'll  see  about  it.  But  I  swan  to  man ! 
there's  your  mother,  'n  I  don't  know  no  more  than 
Pharaoh  which  road  she'll  turn  up.  Whe — w  !  "  and 
he  took  to  whistling  "  China  "  five  degrees  worse  than 
"  Dundee."  Poor  Sally's  heart  sank. 

"  Stop  a  minnit !  "  said  the  squire,  after  the  quavers 
of  the  last  bar  subsided.  "Let's  whittle  it  a  bit.  I 


THE  FORGER'S  BRIDE.  219 

guess  you'd  better  show  this  here  letter  to  her  right 
away,  'n  not  say  nothin'  about  me.  She  won't  never 
surmise  that  I've  come  acrost  ye  ;  and  then  you'll  know 
which  way  she's  goin'  to  take,  'n  let  me  know  accordin'. 
Or  I  don't  know's  I  will ;  I  don't  keer  to  be  manoo- 
verin'  round.  It's  sure  as  moonshine  she'll  set  her 
face  against  it,  jest  as  I'd  oughter  hev,  'n  didn't." 

Sally  turned  a  face  full  of  dew  and  bloom  on  her 
father  for  reply. 

"  Come,  take  }'our  hankercher  and  wipe  up  them 
tears.  I  didn't  eat  ye,  'n  maybe  Mis'  Tyler  won't, 
but  there's  small  chances  but  what  she'll  try  to." 

The  squire  turned  down  a  lane  with  a  grin  at  his 
daughter,  thrown  after  her  as  a  consolation.  But,  O 
dear  reader,  did  you  ever  go  to  a  dentist?  Do  you 
remember  the  sinking  heart  with  which  you  forced 
yourself  over  the  threshold  while  every  fibre  of  your 
flesh  recoiled  ?  I  think  it  requires  less  courage  to  face 
the  flashing  front  of  a  battery,  for  there  is  a  chance 
about  bullets.  Much  like  this  felt  Sally  as  she  quick 
ened  her  steps  almost  to  a  run  to  have  this  matter 
"  over  with." 

Pale  enough  she  was  as  she  gasped,  rather  than 
spoke  :  — 

"  Mother,  I've  just  got  a  letter  from  Westboro'." 

Mrs.  Tyler  turned  her  cool  gray  eyes  from  the  iron 
ing-board  and  surveyed  Sally,  whose  face  certainly 
accorded  with  her  tone. 

"  You  hev?" 

"  Yes'm  ;  here  it  is." 

Her  mother  took  the  letter  between  her  thumb  and 
finger  and  deliberately  read  it. 

"  Of  all  things  !     Here's  a  pretty  piece  of  business  ! 


220  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

I  told  yer  father  't  I  was  clear  against  your  goin'  to 
Westboro',  and  now  he'll  see  what  comes  on't.  I 
guess  he'll  hark  to  me  next  time.  Many  you,  indeed ! 
—  'n  talks  as  though  he  was  pretty  consider'ble  sure 
you'd  hev  him  !  " 

Harmless  fell  this  acute  arrow.  Sally  did  love  Joe, 
and  knew  he  knew  it. 

"  You  kin  jest  answer  that  letter,  Sally,  'n  tell  him 
we  don't  want  nobody  round  after  you  :  me'n  your 
father  can't  spare  ye.  I  aint  a-goin'  to  hev  no  sech 
talk,  not  this  ten  year  yet,  'n  mebbe  not  then.  Ef  you 
know'd  's  much  'bout  the  troubles  o'  matrimony  's  I 
do,  I  guess  ye'd  ruther  live  single,  a  sight." 

"  But,  mother,  I  —  I — I  don't  want  to  write  such  a 
letter." 

Sally  burst  into  tears  just  as  her  father  came  in. 

"Well,  now,  what  is't,  wife?  What's  broke  loose 
now?" 

"  Nothin'  great,  only  Sally's  a  fool;  and  another 
one  o'  the  same  sort,  only  a  young  feller,  has  ben  a 
comin'  round  'n  askin'  her  to  marry  him." 

"You  don't  say  so!"  ejaculated  the  squire,  as 
naturally  as  possible.  "  That  does  beat  all !  I  never 
did  hear  such  brass  !  One  o'  them  Westboro'  chaps,  1 
s'pose." 

"Now  there  }'ou  go,  right  off  the  handle,  slap!  I 
should  like  to  know  who  gev  her  things,  'n  money  'n  all 
to  go  to  Westboro'?  An'  hevin'  flung  her  at  the  poor 
young  man's  head,  so  to  speak,  lo  you  now !  he  turns 
around  and  jaws  at  him  for  pickin'  on  her  up  !  That's 
real  man-fashion,  I  do  declare  !  " 

"  Goodness  gracious  !  ef  that  aint  jumpin'  the  fence  ! 
Anyhow,  Sally,  you've  got  to  give  him  the  mitten 


THE  FORGER'S  BRIDE.  221 

quick-step.  I  sba'n't  hev  it,  'n  I  won't,  'n  I  aint  a-goin' 
to!" 

"  There  you  be  ag'in,  husband  !  How  do  you  know 
but  what  he's  a  real  clever  young  man?  An'  Sally 
seems  to  kind  o'  set  her  heart  on't ;  'n  I  s'pose  she'll 
be  a-gettin'  married  some  time,  anyhow." 

"  Thought  you  set  your  face  ag'in  matrimony,  Miss 
Tyler?" 

"Well,  I  can't  fix  the  world  over  ef  I  want  to,  and 
folks  will  do  so,  whether  or  no.  And  ef  he's  got  means, 
and  is  pretty  respectable,  'n  goes  to  meetin',why,  in  five 
or  six  }iears  or  so  £  might  be  brought  to  think  on't." 

"  O  mother!" 

"Well,  what?" 

After  that  the  battle  raged,  the  squire  opposing, 
Mrs.  Tyler  consenting,  till  at  last,  after  myriads  of 
words,  Mrs.  Tyler  sat  down  to  write  Mrs.  Phelps  a 
letter  of  inquiry  into  Joe  Dyer's  morals,  means, 
manners,  etc.  ;  and  in  due  time  got  this  hardly  satis 
factory  letter  from  Cousin  Jerushy  :  — 

WESTBORO',  June  3,  18 — . 
DEAR  AUNT  HULDAH  :  — 

I  got  your  letter  two  days  ago,  but  Sophrony  and  Mary  Jane 
are  both  down  with  measles,  and  I  don't  have  much  time.  I 
don't  know  anything  about  Joe  Dyer  but  what's  good.  He  hasn't 
lived  here  a  great  while ;  he  comes  from  Springfield,  where  he 
worked  a  good  spell  in  the  armory.  He  makes  good  wages  here, 
and  we  think  to  our  house  he's  a  real  pretty  young  man,  and  I 
guess  a  good  one.  Anyway,  Uncle  Tyler  could  write  to  the 
head  man  up  to  the  armory  and  find  out  all  he  wants  to  know. 
I  can't  write  much  more,  for  the  children  have  'most  got  through 
their  nap.  Give  my  love  to  uncle  and  Sally. 

Your  affectionate  niece, 

JERUSHA  PHELPS. 


222  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

"Well!  "  groaned  the  squire,  from  the  side  of  the 
room  behind  his  wife,  giving  Sally  a  look  as  full  of 
mischief  as  a  boy's,  "  I  wash  my  hands  o'  the  hull 
business.  You've  took  it  up,  Miss  Tyler,  ag'inst  my 
feeliu's,  'n  you  can  kerry  it  out." 

"  Jest  as  ef  I  should  go  'n  write  a  letter  to  that  man 
up  to  Springfield,  husband!  'Taint  my  business; 
men-folks  never  want  women  a-writin'  to  them  about 
sech  things.  I  should  make  a  mess  ou't ;  and  reelly, 
ef  you  do  care  about  Sally's  feelin's,  you'd  oughter  do 
it  right  off." 

"Well,  well!"  groaned  and  grinned  the  squire, 
"  it's  no  use  talkin'  no  more.  Fetch  me  the  paper, 
Sally ;  I'll  go  'u  do  it  now,  if  I've  got  ter." 

So  the  squire  indited  the  following  epistle,  peculiar 
in  more  than  its  brevity  :  — 

JUNE  4,  18 — . 
MR.  ADKINS,  ESQ.  :  — 

SIR, — I  have  heerd  that  a  young  man  called  Joseph  Dyer 
•worked  to  your  shops  last  year.  What  did  he  do  and  how  did 
he  do  it?  Leastways,  what  kind  of  a  feller  is  he?  I  put  in  a 
stamp  for  answer,  which  will  obleege 

Yours  to  command, 

TAPHRO  TYLEB. 

Nobody  saw  the  letter  before  it  went.  In  the  mean 
time,  Joe  Dyer,  getting  no  answer  from  Sally,  but 
hearing  through  Jerushy  that  he  had  been  inquired 
about  by  Mrs.  Tyler,  and  drawing  favorable  augury 
from  that  fact,  became  desperately  impatient,  and 
travelled  off  one  fine  day  to  Wiugfield  to  get  a  vicd- 
voce  answer  to  his  proposal.  It  was  the  loveliest  of 
June  twilights  when  he  walked  over  from  the  station ; 


THE  FORGER'S  BRIDE.  223 

the  woods  were  full  of  that  perfumed  gloom  that  sum 
mer  distils  through  the  soft  and  tranquil  air  of  even 
ing  ;  all  the  earth  was  quivering  with  vibrant  whispers, 
as  if  its  great  heart  palpitated  with  new  life  and  mur 
mured  in  sleep ;  myriads  of  blossoms  drank  the  dew  as 
at  a  fairy  revel,  and  sent  breathing  odors  skyward ; 
the  unutterable  thrill  and  rapture  of  spring  just  bloom 
ing  into  summer  pervaded  even  the  worst  places  of 
"YVingfield.  Joe's  heart  was  almost  too  accordant  with 
the  season,  and  it  beat  harder  than  was  pleasant  as  he 
knocked  at  Squire  Tyler's  front  door,  standing  open  for 
once  in  its  life,  and  letting  into  the  usually  musty 
parlor  the  whole  breath  of  June  and  the  delicate  odor 
of  two  great  white  rose-bushes  that  guarded  the  portal 
on  either  hand,  and  trailed  their  wreaths  of  sunny 
blossoms,  whose  hearts  glowed  with  the  saffron  tints  of 
dawn,  even  across  the  quaint  old  lintel  overhead. 

Sometimes  all  powers  are  propitious  to  lovers,  true 
though  they  be,  and  to-night  the  hour  and  the  pair 
might  have  appeased  the Eumeuides  themselves.  Mrs. 
Tyler,  dreaming  of  nothing  less  than  Joe  Dyer's  vicin 
ity,  was  in  the  farther  barn  coercing  a  refractory  hen, 
that  had  a  will  of  her  own  and  declined  to  accept  the 
situation ;  the  squire  was  at  the  post-office  waiting 
anxiously  for  the  mail.  So  Sally  herself  appeared 
through  the  soft  dusk  like  a  glimmering  blossom,  and 
was  stunned  —  perhaps  not  disagreeably  —  by  finding 
herself  in  Joe's  arms. 

"O  Sally!" 

"O  Joe!" 

And  then  the  parlor  sank  into  a  moment's  quiet  as 
they  looked  at  each  other  and  —  said  no  more.  If 
speech  was  given  us  to  conceal  our  feelings  they 


224  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

had  very  few  to  conceal,  certainly  ;  and  I  am  inclined 
to  think  it  was  so. 

But  while  they  sat  in  this  sweet  silence,  quite  forget 
ful  of  adverse  fate  —  possible  to  them  as  to  all  human 
ity —  down  the  street  came  the  squire,  regret  and  con 
sternation  on  his  kind  old  face,  holding  a  letter  in  one 
hand  and  wiping  the  sweat  from  his  troubled  forehead  ; 
not  that  it  was  warm,  but  he  was  agitated.  He 
avoided  the  house,  for  he  did  not  want  to  see  Sally  at 
first,  and,  hearing  the  angry  squawks  of  the  hen  with 
which  Mrs.  Tyler  was  engaged  in  single  combat,  he 
traced  his  wife  to  the  barn,  and  arrived  there  just  as 
she  emerged  from  the  door,  panting,  but  flushed  with 
victory. 

"Well!  I've  sot  her  at  last!  Got  her  into  a  nail- 
kag  and  put  a  milkin'-stool  on  top.  I  guess  she'll  stay 
put  till  to-morrer,  and  then  I'll  fetch  the  good  eggs  'n 
put  under  her." 

"Kind  o'  smother,  won't  she?"  suggested  the  hu 
mane  squire. 

"  Law,  no  !  the  hay  aint  up  to  the  bung-hole.  Got 
a  letter,  hev  ye,  there  in  your  hand?  " 

"  Je-rus'lem !  I  guess  I  hev ;  'n  I  wish  Sally'd 
stayed  to  hum,  I  tell  ye.  I'm  dead  beat,  'n  I'd  ruther 
be  hung  this  minnit  than  tell  her  on't.  Come  along 
into  the  kitchen ;  she  aint  there,  is  she  ? " 

"  No  ;  she's  upstairs,  I  'xpect.  She  seems  to  favor 
bein'  alone  considerable  when  the  chores  is  done.  I'm 
'most  allers  sleepy,  and  you're  up  to  the  store,  'n  there 
aint  no  company  for  her.  Wait  a  miniiit,  'n  I'll  light 
the  lamp." 

"  Oh,  dear!  "  said  the  squire,  unfolding  the  letter. 
"  It's  a  dreadful  thing,  wife  —  dreadful ;  but  'taint  no 


THE  FORGER'S  BRIDE.  225 

use  to  jaw  about  it  beforehand.     Here  !  take  'n  read 
it;  I  can't." 

The  superintendent  had  evidently  thought  Mr.  Ty 
ler's  first  questions  were  the  important  ones,  and 
answered  them  in  business  fashion :  — 

MR.  'PAPHKO  TYLER  :  — 

SIR, — Yours  of  the  4th  came  to  hand  this  morning.'  I  have 
recently  come  to  this  place,  but  find  on  inquiry  that"*  Joseph 
Dyer  worked  here  a  year  ago.  He  was  a  forger,  and  a  good 
workman ;  of  his  personal  character  I  know  nothing. 

Yours,  etc., 

T.    Ai.iv INS. 

"  Goodness  gracious  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tyler,  drop 
ping  the  letter  in  her  lap  and  looking  aghast  at  her 
husband  over  her  spectacles.  "A  forger!  Why,  it's 
a  hangin'  business,  aiut  it?" 

"  I  b'lieve  'taint  now,  but  anywa}*  it's  State  prison. 
Jest  to  think  on't !  " 

"  It's  dreadful !  dreadful !  husband  ;  '11  we've  got  to 
tell  Sally!  Well,  she's  had  a  great  escape,  'n  she'd 
oughter  be  thankful  for't." 

"  I  guess  that'll  be  the  least  part  on't,"  growled  the 
squire,  passing  his  hand  across  the  shaggy  eyebrows 
as  if  to  brush  away  a  mist.  "  Fetch  the  lamp,  wife; 
the  entry's  mighty  dark.  I'll  go  'n  call  her." 

The  squire  opened  the  kitchen  door,  and  Mrs.  Tyler 
followed,  but  their  steps  were  arrested  by  a  strange 
sound  in  that  house.  From  the  parlor  door  flowed  a 
stream  of  low  talk,  sweet  as  the  kissing  whispers  that 
ripple  behind  a  canoe  silently  paddled  across  silent 
water,  and  broken  here  and  there  with  bubbles  of 
laughter.  The  squire  looked  at  his  wife  and  advanced 


226  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

manfully,  taking  the  light  in  his  own  hand.  There,  in 
the  flood  of  light  the  rising  moon  poured  in  at  the 
open  windows,  sat  Sally  and  a  young  man,  hand  in 
hand,  on  the  settee,  —  Sally  blooming  and  dimpling 
and  blushing  in  the  most  unscrupulous  and  delightful 
manner,  and  the  "chap,"  as  the  squire  mentally  styled 
him,  so  handsome  and  so  happy  that  Mr.  Tyler  invol 
untarily  smiled. 

"  Father,  this  is  Mr.  Dyer.     That  is  mother,  Joe." 

The  squire  fairly  gasped  with  rage. 

"  How  darst  you  come  into  this  house,  you  raskil ! 
—  a-grinnin'  and  imposin'  round  jest  as  though  you 
was  as  good  as  folks !  I  know  ye,  'n  I'll  hev  ye 
hauled  up  in  State's  prison  pretty  quick  if  there's  law 
in  the  land,  'nless  you  clear  right  off." 

"O  father  !  "  sobbed  Sally  ;  "  don't !  don't !  What 
do  you  talk  so  for?"  —  Joe  being,  as  he  afterward 
expressed  it,  "  dumb  foundered." 

' '  Talk  so  !  Facts  is  facts  !  I've  found  him  out ; 
he's  ben  and  committed  forgery,  the  everlastin' 
scamp ! " 

Joe  found  his  tongue  and  blazed  :  — 

"  That's  an  infernal  lie,  whoever  says  it !  " 

"O  Joe,  don't!"  interposed  sobbing  Sally;  Mrs. 
Tyler  being,  for  a  wonder,  quite  silent,  confessing  at 
a  later  period  of  the  evening  that  she  "  was  so  kind  o' 
choked  up  she  hadn't  a  word  to  throw  to  a  dog." 

"  But  it  is  a  lie,  Sally,  and  I  can't  be  slandered 
so  by  any  man,  if  he  is  your  father." 

"  'Taint  no  slander  !  "  thundered  the  squire  ;  "  'n  if 
it  was,  'taint  me  that  slandered  ye.  I  suppose  you 
won't  deny  you  worked  to  the  Springfield  armory  a  spell 
back?" 


THE  FORGER'S  BRIDE.  227 

"  Why,  no ;  what  should  I  deny  it  for?" 

"Well,  read  that!"  said  the  squire,  charging  down 
upon  the  angry  and  astonished  young  man  with  the 
letter. 

Joe  took  the  paper  from  the  hand  that  brandished  it, 
and  the  squire  held  the  lamp  nearer.  As  Sally's  lover 
read  the  damnatory  epistle  a  change  passed  over  his 
features  (isn't  that  the  way  they  say  it  in  novels?)  ; 
but  it  wasn't  livid,  or  pallid,  or  rigid,  or  purple,  or 
anything  but  a  growing  broader  and  broader,  till,  as 
the  last  words  were  glanced  at,  Joe  flung  himself  back 
on  the  old  settee  and  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter  that 
seemed  utterly  inextinguishable.  He  held  his  sides ; 
he  rolled  and  twisted ;  he  laughed  so  that  the  tears 
made  his  ruddy  cheeks  shiny  ;  he  could  not  speak,  but 
held  out  the  letter  to  Sally.  Was  the  girl  bewitched  ? 
She,  too,  sat  down  in  a  chair  and  screamed  with  a 
laughter  that  would  not  be  appeased,  while  the  squire 
and  Mrs.  Tyler  glared  at  them  with  wide-open  mouths 
and  blank  eyes,  as  if  they  had  suddenly  gone  mad. 

"Oh,  dear!  O  Lord!  O  goodness!  I  shall  split 
—  I  certainly  shall!"  wassail  the  explanation  that 
could  be  got  from  Joe.  He  could  not  talk  ;  but  Sally, 
not  quite  so  tickled  with  the  joke,  because  she  had 
been  so  scared  to  begin  with,  recovered  her  equilibrium 
first,  and,  wiping  her  streaming  eyes,  began,  as  well  as 
she  could  for  still-interrupting  spasms  of  laughing,  to 
expound : — 

"  Why,  father  !  Goodness  —  oh,  don't  you  know  what 
Mr.  Adkins  means?  Oh,  dear!  I  can't  stop!  Why,  he 
means  Joe  was  a  forger.  Oh  !  there  it  is  again  !  Well, 
he  is  now.  He  works  at  a  forge,  and  that's  what  they 
call  'em  /  " 


228  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

Joe  exploded  again,  and  the  parlor  rang  with  the 
squire's  roars.  Mrs.  Tyler  was  the  last  to  comprehend  ; 
but  when  she  did  she  laughed  too  ;  and  when  at  length 
the  four,  all  red  and  shiny,  had  laughed  themselves 
out  and  were  fairly  gasping  for  breath,  the  squire 
turned  upon  Joe  :  — 

"•  "Well,  I  haint  hed  sech  a  larf,  not  in  twent}'  year. 
I  can't  do  nothin'  but  shake  hands  with  ye  for  the  sake 
on't.  Got  any  folks  in  Wingfield?  No?  Well,  ye 
must  stay  here,  —  there's  room  enough,  — and  I  shall 
hev  a  better  chance  to  see  how  I  like  ye  ;  'n  so'll  Miss 
Tyler.  I  don't  know  but  what  Sally's  made  up  her 
mind." 

Sally  had  slipped  away  before  Joe  looked  round.  Is 
it  necessary  to  detail  Joe's  triumphant  progress  into 
the  hearts  of  the  family  ?  Perhaps  the  best  proof  of  it 
is  that  on  one  October  day,  "  expressly  got  up  for  the 
occasion,"  as  Joe  said,  when  the  hills  were  gorgeous 
with  color,  the  air  transfused  with  sunshine,  and  the 
river  blue  as  the  fringed  gentians  on  its  bank,  Sally- 
descended  once  more  from  the  cars  at  Westboro' 
station,  —  her  first  appearance  in  the  new  and  highly- 
interesting  character  of  "The  Forger's  Bride." 


TOO    LATE.  229 


TOO    LATE. 


"  "Tis  true  'tis  pity!  pity  'tis  'tis  true!  " 

IN  one  of  those  scanty  New  England  towns  that  fill 
a  stranger  with  the  acutest  sense  of  desolation,  more 
desolate  than  the  desert  itself,  because  there  are  human 
inhabitants  to  suffer  from  its  splitude  and  listlessness, 
there  stood,  and  still  stands,  a  large  red  farm-house, 
with  sloping  roof,  and  great  chimney  in  the  middle, 
where  David  Blair  lived.  Perhaps  Wingfield  was  not 
so  forlorn  to  him  as  to  another,  for  he  had  Scotch 
blood  in  his  veins,  and  his  shrewd  thrift  found  full 
exercise  in  redeeming  the  earth  from  thorns  and  briers, 
and  eating  his  bread  under  the  full  force  of  the  prime 
val  curse.  He  was  a  "  dour"  man,  with  a  long,  grim 
visage  that  would  have  become  any  Covenanter's  con 
venticle  in  his  native  land ;  and  his  prayers  were  as 
long  and  grim  as  his  face.  Of  life's  graces  and  ameni 
ties  he  had  no  idea  ;  they  would  have  been  scouted  as 
profane  vanities  had  they  blossomed  inside  his  thresh 
old.  Existence  to  him  was  a  heavy  and  dreadful  re 
sponsibility  ;  a  drear  and  doubtful  working  out  of  his 
own  salvation ;  a  perpetual  fleeing  from  the  wrath  to 
come,  that  seemed  to  dog  his  heels  and  rear  threatening 
heads  at  every  turn.  A  cowardly  man,  with  these  ever- 
present  terrors,  would  have  taken  refuge  in  some  sweet 
and  lulling  sin  or  creed,  some  belief  of  a  universal  sal- 


230  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

vation,  some  epicurean  "  let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to 
morrow  we  die,"  or  some  idea  in  nothing  beyond  the 
grave. 

But  David  Blair  was  full  of  courage.  Like  some 
knotty,  twisted  oak,  that  offers  scant  solace  to  the  eye, 
he  endured,  oak-like,  all  storms,  and  bent  not  an  atom 
to  any  fierce  blast  of  nature  or  Providence  ;  for  he  made 
a  distinction  between  them.  His  wife  was  a  neat,  quiet, 
subdued  woman,  who  held  her  house  and  her  husband 
in  as  much  reverence  as  a  Feejee  holds  his  idols.  Like 
most  women,  she  had  an  instinctive  love  for  grace  and 
beauty,  but  from  long  repression  it  was  only  a  blind 
and  groping  instinct.  Her  house  was  kept  in  a  state 
of  spotless  purity,  but  was  bald  as  any  vineless  rock 
within.  Flies  never  intruded  there  ;  spiders  still  less. 
The  windows  of  the  "best  room"  were  veiled  and 
double-veiled  with  green  paper  shades  and  snow-white 
cotton  curtains,  and  the  ghastly  light  that  strayed  in 
through  these  obstructions  .  revealed  a  speckless,  but 
hideous,  homespun  carpet,  four  straight-backed  chairs, 
with  horse-hair  seats,  an  equally  black  and  shining  sofa, 
and  a  round  mahogany  table  with  a  great  Bible  in  the 
midst.  No  vases,  no  shells,  no  ornament  of  useless 
fashion  stood  on  the  white  wooden  mantel-piece  over 
the  open  fireplace  ;  no  stencil  border  broke  the  monoto 
nous  whitewash  of  the  walls.  You  could  see  your  face 
in  a  state  of  distortion  and  jaundice  anywhere  in  the 
andirons,  so  brilliant  were  their  brassy  columns ;  and 
the  very  bricks  of  the  chimney  were  scraped  and  washed 
from  the  soot  of  the  rare  fire.  You  could  hardly  imag 
ine  that  even  the  leaping,  laughing  wood-fire  could  im 
part  any  cheer  to  the  funereal  order  of  that  chill  and 
musty  apartment.  Bedroom,  kitchen,  shed,  wood-house, 


TOO    LATE.  231 

—  all  shared  this  scrupulous  array.  The  processes  that 
in  other  households  are  wont  to  give  cheery  tokens  of 
life,  and  bounty,  and  natural  appetites  and  passions, 
seemed  here  to  be  carried  on  under  protest.  No  flour 
was  spilled  when  Thankful  Blair  made  bread  ;  no  milk 
ever  slopped  from  an  overfull  pail ;  no  shoe  ever 
brought  in  mud  or  sand  across  the  mats  that  lay  inside 
and  outside  of  every  door.  The  very  garret  preserved 
an  aspect  of  serenity,  since  all  its  bundles  of  herbs  hung 
evenly  side  by  side,  and  the  stores  of  nuts  had  each 
their  separate  boundaries,  lest  some  jarring  door  or 
intrusive  mouse  should  scatter  them. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  order  there  was  yet  a  child, 
if  little  Hannah  Blair  ever  was  a  child  in  more  than 
name.  From  her  babyhood  she  was  the  model  of  all 
Wingfield  babies  :  a  child  that  never  fretted  ;  that  slept 
nights  through  all  the  pangs  and  perils  of  teething ; 
that  had  every  childish  disease  with  perfect  decency 
and  patience ;  was  a  child  to  be  held  up  to  every 
mother's  admiration.  Poor  little  soul!  the  mother 
love  that  crushed  those  other  babies  with  kisses  ;  that 
romped  and  laughed  with  them,  when  she  was  left 
straight  and  solemn  in  her  cradle ;  that  petted,  and 
slapped,  and  spoiled,  and  scolded  all  those  common 
children,  Thankful  Blair  kept  under  lock  and  key  in 
her  inmost  heart. 

"  Beware  of  idols  !  "  was  the  stern  warning  that 
had  fallen  on  her  first  outburst  of  joy  at  the  birth  of 
one  living  child  at  last,  and  from  that  time  the  whole 
tenor  of  her  husband's  speech  and  prayer  had  been 
that  they  both  might  be  saved  from  the  awful  sin  of 
idolatry,  and  be  enabled  to  bring  up  their  child  in  the 
fear  of  the  Lord,  a  hater  of  sin  and  a  follower  of  the 


232  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

Law :  the  gospel  that  a  baby  brought  to  light  was  not 
yet  theirs  !  So  Hannah  grew  to  girlhood,  a  feminine 
reproduction  of  her  father.  Keen,  practical  insight  is 
not  the  most  softening  trait  for  a  woman  to  possess. 
It  is  iron  and  steel  in  the  soul  that  does  not  burn  with 
love  might}7  and  outflowing  enough  to  fuse  all  other 
elements  in  its  own  glow,  and  as  Hannah  grew  older 
and  read  her  mother's  repressed  nature  through  and 
through,  the  tender  heart,  the  timid  conscience,  the 
longing  after  better  and  brighter  things  than  life 
offered  to  her,  only  moved  her  child  to  an  unavowed 
contempt  for  a  soul  so  weak  and  so  childish.  la  a 
certain  way  Hannah  Blair  loved  her  mother,  but  it 
was  more  as  if  she  had  been  her  child  than  her  parent. 
Toward  her  father  her  feelings  were  far  different. 
She  respected  him ;  he  was  her  model.  She  alone 
knew,  from  a  like  experience,  what  reserved  depth  of 
feeling  lay  unawakened  under  his  rigid  exterior ;  she 
knew,  for  there  were  times  when  her  own  granite 
nature  shuddered  through  and  through  with  volcanic 
forces  ;  when  her  only  refuge  against  generous  indigna 
tion  or  mighty  anger  was  in  solitary  prayer  and  griev 
ous  wrestlings  of  the  flesh  against  the  spirit  as  well  as 
the  spirit  against  the  flesh.  So  Hannah  grew  up  to 
womanhood.  Tall  and  slight  as  any  woodland  sapling, 
but  without  the  native  grace  of  a  free  growth,  her  erect 
and  alert  figure  pleased  only  by  its  alacrity  and  spot 
less  clothing.  She  was  "  dredful  spry,"  as  old 
Moll  Thunder,  the  half-breed  Indian  woman  used  to 
say,  —  "  dredful  spry  ;  most  like  squaw  —  so  still,  so 
straight ;  blue  eyes,  most  like  ice.  Ho !  Moll  better 
walk  a  chalk  'fore  Miss  Hanner !  " 

And  Moll  spoke  from  bitter  experience,  for  old  Dea- 


TOO    LATE.  233 

con  Campbell  himself  never  gave  her  severer  lectures  on 
her  ungodly  life  and  conversation  than  dropped  with 
cutting  distinctness  from  those  prim,  thin,  red  lips. 
Yet  Hannah  Blair  was  not  without  charms  for  the 
youth  of  Wingfield.  Spare  as  she  was,  her  face  had 
the  fresh  bloom  of  youth  upon  its  high,  straight  feat 
ures  ;  her  eyes  were  blue  and  bright ;  her  hair,  smoothed 
about  her  small  head,  glittered  like  fresh  flax,  and 
made  a  heavy  coil,  that  her  slender  white  throat  seemed 
over-small  to  sustain.  She  was  cool,  serene,  rather 
unapproachable  to  lovers  or  love-makers ;  but  she  was 
David  Blair's  only  child,  and  his  farm  lay  fair  and 
wide  on  the  high  plains  of  Wingfield.  She  was  well-to- 
do  and  pious,  —  charms  which  hold  to  this  day  potent 
sway  over  the  youth  of  her  native  soil,  —  and  after  she 
was  eighteen  no  Sunday  night  passed  in  solitude  in  the 
Blair  keeping-room  ;  for  young  men  of  all  sorts  and 
sizes  ranged  themselves  against  the  wall,  sometimes 
four  at  once,  tilted  their  chairs,  twirled  their  thumbs, 
crossed  one  foot  and  then  the  other  over  their  alternate 
knees,  dropping  sparse  remarks  about  the  corn,  or 
the  weather,  or  the  sermon,  sometimes  even  the  vil 
lage  politics  ;  but  one  and  all  stared  at  Hannah,  as 
she  sat  upright  by  the  fireplace  or  the  window,  ar 
rayed  in  a  blue-stuff  gown  or  a  flowered  chintz,  as 
the  season  might  be,  and  sitting  as  serene,  as  cool,  as 
uninteresting  as  any  cherub  on  a  tombstone,  till  the 
old  Dutch  clock  struck  nine,  the  meeting-house  bell 
tolled,  and  the  young  men,  one  and  all,  made  their 
awkward  farewells  and  went  home,  uttering,  no  doubt, 
a  sigh  of  relief  when  the  painful  pleasure  was  over. 

By  and  by  the  Wingfield  store,  long  kept  by  Uncle 
Gid  May  hew,  began  to  have  a  look  of  new  life,  for  the 


234  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

old  man's  only  son,  Charley  Mayhew,  had  come  home 
from  Boston,  where  he  had  been  ten  years  in  a  dry- 
goods  shop,  to  take  the  business  off  his  father's  hands. 
Just  in  time,  too,  for  the  store  was  scarce  set  to  rights 
in  symmetrical  fashion  when  Uncle  Gid  was  struck 
with  paralysis  and  put  to  bed  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  — 
a  brief  one  at  that.  Wingfield  gossips  shook  their 
heads  and  muttered  that  the  new  order  of  things  was 
enough  to  kill  him.  After  so  many  years  of  dust  and 
confusion,  to  see  the  pepper-corns,  candy,  and  beeswax 
sorted  out  into  fresh,  clean  jars  ;  the  shoes  and  ribbons, 
cut  nails  and  bar-soap,  neatly  disentangled  and  arranged  ; 
the  ploughs,  harrows,  cheeses,  hoes  and  bales  of  cotton 
and  calico  divorced  and  placed  at  different  ends  of  the 
store  ;  the  grim}*  windows  washed,  and  the  dirty  floor 
cleaned  and  swept,  — was  perhaps  a  shock  to  the  old 
man,  but  not  enough  to  kill  him.  His  eighty  years  of 
vegetation  sufficed  for  that ;  but  he  left  behind  him  this 
son,  so  full  of  life,  and  spirit,  and  fun,  so  earnest  at 
work,  so  abounding  in  energy,  but  withal  so  given  over 
to  frolic  in  its  time,  that  it  seemed  as  if  even  Wingfield 
stagnation  never  could  give  him  a  proper  dulness  or 
paralyze  his  handsome  face  and  manly  figure.  Of 
course  Charley  Mayhew  fell  in  love  with  Hannah 
Blair. 

A  mischievous  desire  at  first  to  wake  up  those  cold 
blue  eyes  and  flush  that  clear,  set  face  with  blushes 
soon  deepened  into  a  very  devoted  affection.  The 
ranks  of  Sunday-night  lovers  began  to  look  at  him 
with  evil  ej'es,  for  not  even  the  formality  of  the  best 
parlor  restrained  his  fun,  or  the  impassive  visage  of 
David  Blair  awed  him  into  silence.  Even  Hannah 
began  to  glow  and  vivify  in  his  presence  ;  a  warmer 


TOO   LATE.  235 

color  flushed  her  cheeks,  her  thin  lips  relaxed  in  real 
smiles ;  her  eyes  shone  with  deeper  and  keener  gleams 
than  the  firelight  lent  them,  and,  worst  of  all,  the 
sheepish  suitors  themselves  could  not  help  an  occa 
sional  giggle,  a  broad  grin,  or  even  a  decided  horse 
laugh,  at  his  sallies  ;  and  when  at  last  David  Blair 
himself  relaxed  into  an  audible  laugh,  and  declared  to 
Charley  he  was  "  a  master  hand  at  telling  stories," 
the  vexed  ranks  gave  it  up,  allowed  that  the  conquer 
ing  hero  had  come,  and  left  Charley  Mayhew  a  free 
field  thereafter,  which  of  course  he  improved.  But 
even  after  Hannah  Blair  had  promised  in  good,  set 
terms  to  be  his  wife,  and  David  had  given  his  slow 
consent,  it  was  doubtful  to  Charley  if  this  treasure 
was  his  merely  out  of  his  own  determined  persistence 
or  with  any  genuine  feeling  of  her  own,  an}-  real  re 
sponse  of  heart ;  for  the  maiden  was  so  inaccessible, 
so  chill,  so  proper,  that  his  warm,  impulsive  nature 
dashed  against  hers  and  recoiled  as  the  wild  sea  from 
a  rocky  coast.  Yet  after  man}*  days  the  rock  does 
show  signs  of  yielding ;  there  are  traces  on  its  surface, 
though  it  needs  years  to  soften  and  disentegrate  its 
nature.  They  were  a  handsome  couple,  these  two, 
and  admiring  eyes  followed  them  in  their  walks. 
Never  had  Hannah's  face  mantled  with  so  rich  a  color, 
or  her  eyes  shone  with  so  deep  and  soft  a  blue ;  the 
stern,  red  lips  relaxed  into  a  serene  content,  and 
here  and  there  a  tint  of  gayety  about  her  dress  —  a 
fresh  ribbon,  a  flower  at  her  throat,  a  new  frill  —  told 
of  her  shy  blossom-time.  She  was  one  of  those  prim, 
old-fashioned  pinks,  whose  cold  color,  formal  shape, 
stiff  growth,  and  dagger-shaped  gra3'-green  leaves, 
stamp  them  the  quaint  old-maid  sisterhood  of  flowers, 


236  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

yet  which  hold  in  their  hearts  a  breath  of  passionate 
spice,  an  odor  of  the  glowing  Orient  or  the  sweet  and 
ardent  South,  that  seems  fitter  for  the  open-breasted 
roses,  looking  frankly  and  fervently  up  to  the  sun. 

No,  not  even  her  lover  knew  the  madness  of  Han 
nah  Blair's  hungry  heart,  now  for  the  first  time  fed,  — 
a  madness  that  filled  her  with  sweet  delirium,  that  she 
regarded  as  nothing  less  than  a  direct  Satanic  impulse, 
against  which  she  fought  and  prayed,  all  in  vain  ;  for 
God  was  greater  than  her  heart,  and  he  had  filled  it 
with  that  love  which  every  wife  and  mother  needs, 
strong  enough  to  endure  all  things,  to  be  forever  faith 
ful  and  forever  fresh.  But  no  vine-planted  and  grass- 
strewn  volcano  ever  showed  more  placidly  than  Hannah 
Blair.  Her  daily  duties  were  done  with  such  exactness 
and  patience,  her  lover's  demands  so  coolly  set  aside 
till  those  duties  were  attended  to,  her  face  kept  so 
calm  even  when  the  blood  thrilled  to  her  finger-tips  at 
the  sound  of  his  voice,  that,  long  as  her  mother  had 
known  her,  she  looked  on  with  wonder,  and  admired 
afar  off  the  self-control  she  never  could  have  exhibited. 
For  Hannah's  wooing  was  carried  on  in  no  such  style 
as  her  mother's  had  been.  Thankful  Parsons  had 
accepted  David  Blair  from  a  simple  sense  of  duty,  and 
he  had  asked  her  because  she  was  meek  and  pious,  had 
a  good  farm,  and  understood  cows  ;  no  troublesome 
sentiment,  no  turbulent  passion,  disturbed  their  rather 
dull  courtship.  A  very  different  wooer  was  this  hand 
some,  merry  young  fellow,  with  his  dark  curls  and 
keen,  pleasant  eyes,  who  came  into  the  house  like  a 
fresh,  dancing  breeze,  and  stirred  its  dusty  stagnation 
into  absolute  sparkle.  Mrs.  Blair  loved  him  dearly 
already ;  her  repressed  heart  opened  to  him  all  its 


TOO    LATE.  237 

motherly  instincts.  She  cooked  for  him  whatever  she 
observed  he  liked,  with  simple  zeal  and  pleasure.  She 
unconsciously  smiled  to  hear  his  voice.  Deeply  she 
wondered  at  Hannah,  who,  day  by  day,  stitched  on  her 
quilt-,  her  sheets,  her  pillow-cases,  and  her  napery, 
with  as  diligent  sternness  as  ever  she  applied  to  more 
irksome  tasks,  and  never  once  blushed  or  smiled  over 
the  buying  or  shaping  of  her  personal  bridal  gear,  only 
showing,  if  possible,  a  keener  eye  for  business,  a  more 
infallible  judgment  of  goods  and  prices,  wear  and  tear, 
use  and  fitness,  than  ever  before. 

So  the  long  winter  wore  away.  Hannah's  goods 
lay  piled  in  the  "  spare  chamber,"  —  heaps  of  immac 
ulate  linen,  homespun  flannel,  patchwork  of  gayest 
hues,  and  towels  woven  and  hemmed  by  her  own 
hands  ;  and  in  the  clothes-press,  whose  deep  drawers 
were  filled  with  her  own  garments  in  neat  array,  hung 
the  very  wedding  dress  of  dove-colored  paduasoy,  the 
great  Leghorn. bonnet,  with  white  satin  ribbons,  and 
the  black  silk  cardinal.  Hannah  had  foregone  all  the 
amusements  of  the  past  months,  at  no  time  consonant 
to  her  taste,  in  order  to  construct  these  treasures  for 
her  new  life.  In  vain  had  Charley  coaxed  her  to  share 
in  the  sleighing  frolics,  the  huskings,  the  quilting-bees 
of  the  neighborhood.  It  did  not  once  enter  into  his 
mind  that  Hannah  had  rather  be  alone  with  the  fulness 
of  her  great  joy  than  to  have  its  sacred  rapture  intermed 
dled  with  by  the  kindly  or  unkindly  jokes  and  jeers  of 
other  people.  He  never  knew  that  her  delight  was  full 
even  to  oppression,  when  she  sat  by  herself  and  sewed 
like  an  automaton,  setting  with  every  stitch  a  hope  or 
a  thought  of  her  love  and  life. 

It   was   spring   now.     The   long,    cold    winter,  had 


238  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

passed  at  last ;  the  woods  began  to  bud,  the  pastures 
grew  green  even  in  "Wingfield,  and  brave  little  blos 
soms  sprung  up  in  the  very  moisture  of  the  just  melted 
snow-drifts.  May  had  brought  the  robins  and  the 
swallows  back  ;  here  and  there  an  oriole  darted  like  a 
flake  of  fire  from  one  drooping  elm  to  another ;  the 
stiff  larches  put  out  little  crimson  cones  ;  the  gracious 
elm  boughs  grew  dusk  and  dense  with  swelling  buds, 
and  the  maple  hung  out  its  dancing  yellow  tassels  high 
in  air.  The  swamps  were  transfigured  with  vivid  ver 
dure  and  lit  with  rank  yellow  blossoms,  where 

"  The  wild  marsh  marigold  shone  like  fire,"  — 

the  quaint,  sad-colored  trillium  made  its  protest  in 
fence  corners  and  by  the  low  buttresses  of  granite  on 
the  hills  far  and  near,  and  the  rough-leaved  arbutus 
nestled  its  baby  faces  of  sweetest  bloom  deep  in  the 
gray  grass  and  stiff  moss  beds.  The  day  drew  near 
for  the  wedding.  It  was  to  be  the  last  Wednesday  in 
May. 

"  Darned  unlucky  !  "  muttered  Moll  Thunder,  drying 
her  ragged  shoes  before  Mrs.  Blair's  kitchen  fire,  hav 
ing  just  brought  a  fagot  of  herbs  and  roots  for  the 
brewing  of  root-beer, —  even  then  a  favorite  beverage 
in  New  England,  as  it  is  to-day.  "  Darned  unluck}" ! 
Married  in  May,  repent  alwa}*.  Guess  Hanner  pretty 
good  like  ter  set  up  'ginst  ole  debbil  heself.  No  good, 
no  good ;  debbil  pretty  good  strong.  Moll  knows ! 
He!  he!  he!" 

Mrs.  Blair  shivered.  She  was  superstitious,  like  all 
women,  and  old  Moll  was  a  born  witch,  everybody 
knew.  But  then  her  daughter's  pure,  fair,  and  reso 
lute  face  rose  up  before  her,  and  the  superstitious  fear 


TOO    LATE.  239 

flickered  and  went  out.  She  thought  Hannah  alto 
gether  beyond  the  power  of  "  ole  debbil."  At  last  the 
last  Wednesday  came,  — a  day  as  serene  and  lovely  as 
if  new  created  ;  flying  masses  of  white  cloud  chased 
each  other  through  the  azure  sky,  and  cast  quick  shad 
ows  on  the  long,  green  range  of  hills  that  shut  in 
Wingfield  on  the  west.  Shine  and  shadow  added  an 
exquisite  grace  of  expression  to  the  shades  of  tender 
green  veiling  those  cruel  granite  rocks  ;  a  like  flitting 
grace  at  last  transfigured  Hannah  Blair's  cold-featured 
face.  The  apple-trees  blossomed  everywhere  with  fes 
tive  garlands  of  faint  pink  bloom,  and  filled  the  air 
with  their  bitter-sweet,  subtle  odor,  clean  and  delicate, 
yet  the  parent  of  that  luscious,  vinous,  oppressive  per 
fume  that  autumn  should  bring  from  the  heaps  of  gold 
and  crimson  fruit,  as  yet  unformed  below  those  waxen 
petals. 

To-day  at  last  Hannah  had  resolved  to  give  her 
beating  heart  one  day  of  freedom,  —  one  long  day  of 
unrestrained  joy,  —  if  she  could  bear  the  freedom  of 
that  ardent  rapture,  so  long,  so  conscientiously  re 
pressed.  For  once  in  her  life  she  sung  about  her 
work  ;  psalm-tunes,  indeed,  but  one  can  put  a  deal  of 
vitality  into  Mear  and  Bethesda ;  and  Cambridge,  with 
its  glad,  exultant  repeat,  has  all  the  capacity  of  a  love- 
song.  Mrs.  Blair  heard  it  from  the  kitchen  where  she 
was  watching  the  last  pan  of  cake  come  to  crisp  per 
fection  in  the  brick  oven.  The  old  words  had  a  curious 
adaptation  to  the  sweet,  intense  triumph  of  the  air,  and 
Hannah  carried  the  three  parts  of  the  tune  as  they 
came  in  with  a  flexibility  of  voice  new  to  her  as  to  her 
sole  hearer :  — 


240  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

"  'Twas  in  the  watches  of  the  night 

I  thought  upon  thy  power ; 

I  kept  thy  lovely  face  in  sight 

Amid  the  darkest  hour !  " 

"What  a  subdued  ecstasy  rose  and   fell  in  her  voice  as 
she  swept  and  garnished  the  old  house. 

"  Amid  the  darkest  hour !  " 

Oh,  there  could  never  be  a  dark  hour  for  her  again,  she 
thought,  —  never  a  doubt,  or  fear,  or  trouble. 

"  My  beloved  is  mine  and  I  am  his," 

rose  to  her  lips  from  the  oldest  of  all  love-songs. 
Half  profane  she  seemed  to  herself ;  but  to-day  her 
deeper  nature  got  the  better  of  her  deep  prejudices ; 
she  was  at  heart,  for  once,  a  simple,  love-smitten  girl. 
The  quiet  wedding  was  to  be  after  tea.  Nobody 
was  asked,  for  the  few  relatives  David  Blair  possessed 
were  almost  strangers  to  him,  and  lived  far  away. 
His  wife  had  been  an  only  child,  and  Hannah  had 
made  no  girl  friends  in  the  village.  The  minister  was 
to  come  at  eight  o'clock,  and  the  orthodox  cake  and 
wine  handed  round  after  the  ceremony.  The  young 
couple  were  to  go  to  their  own  house,  and  settle  down 
at  once  to  the  duties  and  cares  of  life.  Charley  had 
been  ordered  not  to  appear  till  tea-time,  and  after  the 
dinner  was  eaten  and  everything  put  to  rights  Mrs. 
Blair  went  to  her  room  to  plait  a  cap-ruffle,  and  Han 
nah  sat  down  in  the  spare  room  by  herself,  to  rest,  she 
said  ;  really  to  dream,  to  hope,  to  bury  her  face  in  her 
trembling  hand,  and  let  a  mighty  wave  of  rapture  over 
flow  her  whole  entranced  soul.  The  cap-ruffle  troubled 


TOO    LATE.  241 

Mrs.  Blair  much.  Twice  it  had  to  be  taken  from  the 
prim  plaits  and  relaid,  then  to  be  sprinkled  and  ironed 
out.  This  involved  making  a  fresh  fire  to  heat  the 
flat-iron,  and  it  got  to  be  well  on  in  the  afternoon,  and 
Mrs.  Blair  was  tired.  There  was  nobody  to  reflect  on 
her  waste  of  time,  so  she  lay  down  a  moment  on  the 
bed.  David  had  gone  to  plough  a  lot  on  the  furthest 
part  of  the  farm.  He  neglected  work  for  no  emer 
gency.  As  a  godless  neighbor  said  once,  "  Dave 
Blair  would  sow  rye  on  the  edge  of  hell  if  he  thought 
he  could  get  the  cattle  there  to  plough  it  up ! "  A 
daughter's  wedding-day  was  no  excuse  for  idleness  in 
him.  80  Mrs.  Blair  was  safe  in  her  nap. 

Meantime,  as  Hannah  sat  a  little  withdrawn  from 
the  open  window,  where  for  once  the  afternoon  sun 
streamed  in  unguardedly,  and  the  passionate  warble  of 
the  song-sparrows,  and  the  indescribable  odor  of  spring 
followed  too,  she  was  suddenly  half  aware  of  an  out 
side  shadow,  and  a  letter  skimmed  through  the  window, 
and  fell  at  her  feet.  Scarce  roused  from  her  dream, 
she  looked  at  it  fixedly  a  moment  before  she  stooped 
to  pick  it  up.  Its  coming  was  so  sudden,  so  startling, 
it  did  not  once  occur  to  her  to  look  out  and  see  who 
brought  it.  She  hesitated  before  she  broke  the  broad, 
red  seal,  and  swept  her  hand  across  her  eyes  as  if  to 
brush  away  the  dreams  that  had  filled  and  clouded 
them.  But  the  first  few  words  brought  back  to  those 
eyes  their  native  steely  glint,  and,  as  she  read  on,  life, 
light,  love,  withdrew  their  tender  glories  from  her  face. 
It  settled  into  stone,  into  flint.  Her  mouth  set  in  lines 
of  dreadful  implacable  portent,  her  cheek  paled  to  the 
whiteness  of  a  marble  monument,  and  the  red  lips 
laded  to  pale,  cold  purple.  What  she  read  in  that 


242  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

letter  neither  man  nor  woman  save  the  writer  and  the 
reader  ever  knew,  for  when  it  was  read  Hannah  Blair 
walked  like  an  unrepentant  conspirator  to  the  stake, 
fearless,  careless,  hopeless,  out  into  the  small,  silent 
kitchen,  and  laying  that  missive  of  evil  on  the 
smouldering  coals,  stood  by  stark  and  stiff  till  every 
ash  was  burned  or  floated  up  the  chimney.  Then  she 
turned,  and  said  in  the  voice  of  one  who  calls  from  his 
grave :  — 

"Mother!" 

Mrs.  Blair  sprung  from  her  doze  at  the  sound.  Her 
mother  instinct  was  keen  as  the  hen's  who  hears  the 
hawk  scream  in  the  sky,  and  knows  her  brood  in  dan 
ger.  She  was  on  the  threshold  of  the  kitchen  door 
almost  as  soon  as  Hannah  spoke  ;  and  her  heart  sank 
to  its  furthest  depth  when  she  saw  the  face  before  her. 
Death  would  have  left  no  such  traces  —  given  her  no 
such  shock.  This  was  death  in  life,  and  it  spoke, 
slowly,  deliberately,  with  an  awful  distinctness. 

"  Mother,  when  Charles  May  hew  comes  here  to 
night,  you  must  tell  him  I  will  not  marry  him." 

"  What?  "  half  screamed  the  terrified  woman,  doubt 
ful  of  her  own  hearing.  Again  the  cold,  relentless 
tones,  in  accents  as  clear  and  certain  as  the  voice  of 
fate  itself : — 

"  When  Charles  May  hew  comes  here  to-night  you 
must  see  him,  and  tell  him  I  will  not  marry  him." 

"  Hanner,  I  can't !  I  can't !  What  for?  What  do 
3*011  mean?  Wlmt  is  it?" 

The  words  syllabled  themselves  again,  out  of  the 
thin,  rigid  lips  :  — 

"  I  will  not  marry  him." 

"Oh,  I  can't  tell  him!  he  will  die!   I  cannot,  Han- 


TOO    LATE.  243 

ner.  Yon  must  tell  him  yourself  —  you  must !  you 
must ! " 

Still  the  same  answer,  only  the  words  lessening  each 
time  :  — 

"I  will  not!" 

"  But,  Hanner,  child,  stop  and  think  —  do.  All 
your  things  made ;  you're  published ;  the  minister's 
spoke  to.  Why  do  you  act  so?  You  can't,  Han 
ner.  Oh,  I  never  can  tell  him!  "What  shall  E  say? 
What  will  he  do?  Oh,  dear!  You  must  tell  him 
yourself;  I  can't — I  won't!  I  aint  goin'  to;  you 
must !  " 

A  shade  of  mortal  weariness  stole  across  the  gray, 
still  face,  most  like  the  relaxation  of  the  features  after 
death ;  but  that  was  all  the  shrill  tirade  produced, 
except  the  dull,  cold  repetition  :  — 

"I  will  not!" 

And  then  Hannah  Blair  turned  and  crept  up  the 
narrow  stairway  to  her  bedroom  ;  her  mother,  stunned 
with  terror  and  amazement,  still  with  a  mother's  alert 
ear,  heard  the  key  grate  in  the  lock,  the  window  shut 
quietly  down,  and  heard  no  more.  The  house  was 
silent  even  to  breathlessness.  In  her  desperation  Mrs. 
Blair  began  to  wish  that  David  would  come  ;  and  then 
the  unconscious  spur  of  life-long  habit  stung  her  into 
action.  It  was  five  o'clock,  and  she  must  get  tea  ;  for 
tea  must  be  prepared  though  the  crack  of  doom  were 
impending.  So  she  built  the  fire,  filled  the  kettle, 
hung  it  on  the  crane,  laid  the  table,  all  with  the 
accuracy  of  habit,  her  ear  strained  to  its  utmost  to 
hear  some  voice,  some  sigh,  some  movement  from  that 
bolted  chamber  above.  All  in  vain.  There  might 
have  been  a  corpse  there  for  any  sound  of  life,  and 


244  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

Mrs.  Blair  felt  the  awe  of  death  creep  over  her  as  she 
listened.  For  once  it  was  glad  relief  to  hear  David 
coming  with  the  oxen ;  to  see  them  driven  to  their 
shed ;  to  watch  his  gaunt,  erect  figure  come  up  the 
path  to  the  back  door ;  but  how  hard  it  was  to  tell 
him.  He  asked  no  question,  he  made  no  comment, 
but  the  cold,  gray  eye  quickened  into  fire  like  the 
sudden  glitter  of  lightning,  and  without  a  word  he 
strode  up  the  stair  to  Hannah's  room. 

"  Hannah  !  " 

There  was  no  answer.  David  Blair  was  ill-used  to 
disobedience.  His  voice  was  sterner  than  ever  as  he 
repeated  the  call :  — 

"  Hannah,  open  your  door  !  " 

Slowly  the  key  turned,  slowly  the  door  opened,  and 
the  two  faced  each  other.  The  strong  man  recoiled. 
Was  this  his  child,  —  this  gray,  rigid  masque,  this  old 
woman  ?  But  he  had  a  duty  to  do. 

"  Hannah,  why  is  this?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  father." 

"  But  you  must  see  Charles  Mayhew." 

"I  will  not!" 

Still  calm,  but  inexpressibly  bitter  and  determined, 
like  one  repeating  a  dreadful  lesson  after  some  tyrant's 
torture.  David  Blair  could  not  speak.  He  stood  still 
on  that  threshold,  without  speech  or  motion,  and  softly 
as  it  had  opened,  the  door  closed  in  his  face,  the  key 
turned,  he  was  shut  out,  —  not  merely  from  the  cham 
ber,  but  forever  from  the  deepest  recess  of  Hannah's 
heart  and  life,  if  indeed  he  had  ever,  even  in  imagina 
tion,  entered  there.  He  stood  a  moment  in  silent 
amazement,  and  then  went  down  into  the  kitchen 
utterly  speechless.  He  swallowed  his  supper  median- 


TOO    LATE.  245 

ically,  reached  down  his  hat,  but  on  the  door-step 
turned  and  said  :  — 

"  Thankful,  you  must  tell  Charles  Mayhew  :  Hannah 
will  not;  I  cannot.  It  is  women's  work  —  yea,  it  was 
a  woman  that  first  time  in  Paradise ! " 

And  with  this  scriptural  sneer  he  kft  his  frightened 
wife  to  do  the  thing  he  dared  not.  Not  the  first  man 
who  has  done  so,  nor  the  last.  An  hour  later  the  jo}"- 
fui  bridegroom  came  in,  his  dark  eyes  full  of  happy 
light,  his  handsome  figure  set  off  by  a  new  suit  of 
clothes,  the  like  of  which  Wingfield  never  had  seen, 
much  less  originated ;  his  face  fairly  radiant ;  but  it 
clouded  quickly  as  a  storm-reflecting  lake  when  he  saw 
the  cold,  wet  face  of  Mrs.  Blair,  the  reddened  eyes,  the 
quivering  lips,  and  felt  the  close,  yet  trembling  pressure 
of  the  kind  old  arms,  for  the  first  time  clasped  round 
his  neck  as  he  stooped  toward  her.  How  Thankful 
Blair  contrived  to  tell  him  what  she  had  to  tell 
she  never  knew.  It  was  forced  from  her  lips  in 
incoherent  snatches ;  it  was  received  at  first  with 
total  incredulity,  and  she  needed  to  repeat  it  again 
and  again ;  to  recall  Hannah's  words,  to  describe, 
as  she  best  might,  her  ghastly  aspect,  her  hollow, 
hoarse  voice,  her  reply  to  her  father.  At  last  Charles 
Mayhew  began  to  believe  —  to  rave,  to  give  way  to 
such  passionate,  angry  grief  that  Thankful  Blair 
trembled,  and  longed  for  Parson  Day  to  come,  or  for 
David  to  return.  But  neither  thing  happened,  for 
David  had  warned  the  parson,  and  then  hidden  his  own 
distress  and  dismay  as  far  as  he  could  get  from  the 
house  in  his  own  woodland,  sitting  on  a  log  for  hours, 
lest  in  coming  back  to  the  house  he  should  face  the 
man  he  could  not  but  pity  and  fear  both ;  for  what 


246  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

reason  or  shadow  of  excuse  could  be  offer  to  him  for 
his  daughter's  cruel  and  mysterious  conduct?  So  Mrs. 
Blair  had  to  bear  the  scene  alone.  At  last  the  mad 
dened  man  insisted  on  going  upstairs  to  Hannah's 
door ;  but  that  her  mother  withstood.  He  should  not 
harass  Hannah  ;  she  would  keep  her  from  one  more 
anguish,  if  she  stood  in  the  door-way  and  resisted 
physically. 

"But  I  will  see  her!  I  will  speak  to  her!  I  will 
know  myself  what  this  means  !  I  am  not  a  fool  or  a 
dog,  to  be  thrown  aside  for  nothing  !  " 

And  with  this  he  rushed  out  of  the  kitchen  door, 
round  the  end  of  the  house,  to  the  grass-plat  below 
Hannah's  window.  Well  he  knew  that  little  win 
dow,  with  its  white  curtain,  where  he  had  so  often 
watched  the  light  go  out  from  the  hill-side,  where  he 
always  lingered  in  his  homeward  walks.  The  curtain 
was  down  now,  and  no  ray  of  light  quivered  from  be 
hind  it. 

"  Hannah  !  Hannah  !  my  Hannah  !  "  he  called,  with 
anguish  in  every  tone.  "Hannah,  look  at  me!  only 
just  look  at  me  !  tell  me  one  word  !  "  And  then  came 
the  fondest  pleadings,  the  most  passionate  remon 
strances  —  all  in  vain.  He  might  as  well  have  agon 
ized  by  her  coffin  side  —  by  her  grass-grown  grave. 
Now  a  different  mood  inspired  him,  and  he  poured  out 
threats  and  comraanils  till  the  cool  moonlight  air  seemed 
quivering  with  passion  and  rage.  Still  there  was  no 
voice  nor  answer,  nor  any  that  replied.  The  calmness 
of  immortal  repose  lay  upon  this  quiet  dwelling,  though 
the  torment  and  tumult  without  stormed  like  a  tempest. 
Was  there,  then,  neither  tumult  nor  torment  within? 
At  last,  when  hours  —  ages  it  seemed  to  the  desperate 


TOO    LATE,  247 

man  —  had  passed  by,  nature  could  endure  no  more. 
The  apatlry  of  exhaustion  stole  over  him ;  he  felt  a 
despair,  that  was  partly  bodily  weariness,  take  entire 
possession  of  him  ;  he  ceased  to  adjure,  to  remonstrate, 
to  cry  out. 

"  Good-by,  Hannah  ;  good-by  !  "  he  called  at  length. 
The  weak,  sad  accents  beat  like  storm-weary  birds 
vainly  against  that  blank,  deaf  window.  Nothing 
spoke  to  him,  not  even  the  worn-out  and  helpless 
woman  who  sat  on  the  kitchen  door-step  with  her  apron 
over  her  head,  veiling  her  hopeless  distress,  nor  lifting 
that  homely  screen  to  see  a  ruined  man  creep  away 
from  his  own  grave, —  the  grave  of  all  his  better  nature, 
to  be  seen  there  no  more  ;  for  from  that  hour  no  creature 
in  "Wingfield  ever  saw  or  heard  of  him  again. 

There  was  a  mighty  stir  among  the  gossips  of  the 
village  for  once.  Not  often  did  so  piquant  and 
mysterious  a  bit  of  scandal  regale  them  at  sewing 
societies,  at  tea-fights,  even  at  prayer-meetings,  for  it 
became  a  matter  of  certain  religious  interest,  since  all 
the  parties  therein  were  church-members.  But  in  vain 
did  all  the  gossips  lay  their  heads  together.  Nothing 
was  known  beyond  the  bare  facts  that  at  the  last 
minute  Hannah  Blair  had  "  gi'n  the  mitten  "to  Charley 
Mayhew,  and  he  had  then  and  there  disappeared.  His 
store  was  sold  to  a  new-comer  from  Grenville  Centre, 
who  was  not  communicative,  —  perhaps  because  he  had 
nothing  to  tell,  —  and  Charley  dropped  out  of  daily 
talk  before  long,  as  one  who  is  dead  and  buried  far 
away  ;  as  we  all  do,  after  how  brief  a  lime,  how  vanish 
ing  a  grief.  As  for  the  Blairs,  they  endured  in  stoical 
silence,  and  made  no  sign.  Sunday  saw  both  the  old 
people  in  their  places  early  ;  nobody  looked  for  Hannah, 


248  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

but  before  the  bell  ceased  its  melancholy  toll,  just  be 
fore  Parson  Day  ambled  up  the  broad  aisle,  her  slender 
figure,  straight  and  still  as  ever,  came  up  to  her  seat  in 
the  square  pew.  True  her  face  was  colorless ;  the 
shadow  of  death  lingered  there  yet ;  and  though  her 
eyes  shone  with  keener  glitter  than  ever,  and  her  lips 
burned  like  a  scarlet  streak,  an  acute  observer  would 
have  seen  upon  her  face  traces  of  a  dreadful  conflict : 
lines  around  the  mouth  that  years  of  suffering  might 
have  grown  ;  a  relaxation  of  the  muscles  about  the  eye 
and  temple  ;  a  look  as  of  one  who  sees  only  something 
afar  off,  who  is  absent  from  the  body  as  far  as  con 
sciousness  goes.  There  she  sat,  —  through  short  prayer 
and  long  prayer,  hymn,  psalm,  and  sermon,  and  the 
battery  of  looks,  both  direct  and  furtive,  that  assailed 
her,  —  all  unmoved.  And  at  home  it  was  the  same,  — 
utterly  listless,  cold,  silent,  she  took  up  her  life  again  ; 
day  by  day  did  her  weary  round  of  household  duties 
with  the  same  punctilious  neatness  and  despatch ; 
spun  and  knit,  and  turned  cheeses  ;  for  her  mother  had 
been  broken  down  visibly  for  a  time  by  this  strange 
and  sad  catastrophe,  and  was  more  incapable  than  ever 
in  her  life  before  of  earnest  work,  so  Hannah  had  her 
place  to  supply  in  part  as  well  as  her  own.  We  hear 
of  martyrs  of  the  stake,  the  fagot,  the  arena,  the 
hunger-maddened  beasts,  Ihe  rising  tide,  the  rack,  and 
our  souls  shudder,  our  flesh  creeps  ;  we  wonder  and 
adore.  I  think  the  gladdest  look  of  her  life  would 
have  illuminated  Hannah  Blair's  face  had  it  been  possi 
ble  now  to  exchange  her  endurance  for  any  of  these 
deaths  ;  but  it  is  women  who  must  endure  ;  for  them 
are  those  secret  agonies  no  enthusiasm  gilds,  no  hope 
assuages,  no  sympathy  consoles.  God  alone  stoops  to 


TOO    LATE.  249 

this  anguish,  and  he  not  always  ;  for  there  is  a  stubborn 
pride  that  will  not  lift  its  eyes  to  heaven  lest  it  should 
be  a  tacit  acknowledgment  that  they  were  fixed  once 
upon  poor  earth.  For  these  remains  only  the  outlook 
daily  lessening  to  all  of  us,  —  the  outlook  whose  vista 
ends  in  a  grave. 

But  the  unrelenting  days  stole  on  ;  their  dead  march, 
with  monotonous  tramp,  left  traces  on  even  Hannah's 
wretched,  haughty  soul.  They  trampled  down  the  past 
in  thick  dust ;  it  became  ashes  under  their  feet.  Her 
life  from  torture  subsided  into  pain ;  then  into  bitter 
ness,  stoicism,  contempt,  —  at  last  into  a  certain 
treadmill  of  indifference  ;  only  not  indifference  from 
the  strong,  cruel  grasp  she  still  found  it  needful  to  keep 
upon  thought  and  memory :  once  let  that  iron  hand 
relax  its  pressure,  and  chaos  threatened  her  again ; 
she  dared  not.  Lovers  came  no  more  to  Hannah ;  a 
certain  instinct  of  their  sure  fate  kept  them  away ;  the 
store  of  linen  and  cotton  she  had  gathered,  her  mother's 
careful  hands  had  packed  away  directly  in  the  great 
garret.  The  lavender  silk,  the  cardinal,  the  big  bonnet, 
had  been  worn  to  church,  year  after  year,  in  the  same 
spirit  in  which  a  Hindoo  woman  puts  on  her  gorgeous 
garments  and  her  golden  ornaments  for  suttee.  Mrs. 
Blair  looked  on  in  solemn  wonder,  but  said  not  a  word. 
Nor  were  these  bridal  robes  worn  threadbare  ten  years 
after,  when  another  change  came  to  Hannah's  life  ; 
when  Josiah  Maxwell,  a  well-to-do  bachelor  from  New- 
field,  the  next  village,  was  ''recommended"  to  her, 
and  came  over  to  try  his  chance.  Josiah  was  a  per 
sonable,  hale,  florid  man  of  forty ;  generous,  warm 
hearted,  a  little  blustering  perhaps,  but  thoroughly 
good,  and  a  rich  man  for  those  days.  He  had  a  tan- 


250  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

nery,  a  foundry,  and  a  flourishing  farm.  Newfielcl 
was  a  place  of  great  water-privileges,  sure  to  grow  ;  it 
was  pretty,  bright,  and  successful ;  the  sleepy,  mullein- 
growing  farms  of  Wingfield  had  in  them  no  such  cheer 
or  life.  Hannah  was  thirty  years  old  ;  the  matter  was 
set  before  her  purely  as  a  matter  of  business.  Josiali 
wanted  a  pious,  capable  wife.  He  had  been  too  busy 
to  fall  in  love  all  his  life  ;  now  he  was  too  sensible  (he 
thought)  ;  so  he  looked  about  him  calmly,  after  royal 
fashion,  and,  hearing  good  report  of  Hannah  Blair, 
proceeded  to  make  her  acquaintance  and  visit  her. 
She,  too,  was  a  rational  woman  ;  feeling  she  had  long 
set  aside  as  a  weak  indulgence  of  the  flesh  ;  all  these 
long  and  lonely  years  had  taught  her  a  lesson  —  more 
than  one.  She  had  learned,  that  a  nature  as  strong, 
as  dominant,  as  full  of  power  and  pride  as  hers  must 
have  some  outlet  or  burn  itself  out,  and  here  was  a 
prospect  offered  that  appealed  to  her  native  instincts, 
save  and  except  that  one  so  long  trodden  under  foot. 
She  accepted  Mr.  Maxwell ;  listened  to  his  desire  for  a 
short  engagement  favorably ;  took  down  the  stores 
prepared  for  a  past  occasion  from  the  chests  in  the 
garret,  washed  and  bleached  them  with  her  own  hands  ; 
and  purchased  once  more  her  bridal  attire,  somewhat 
graver,  much  more  costly  than  before,  —  a  plum-colored 
satin  dress,  a  white  merino  shawl,  a  hat  of  chip  with 
rich  white  ribbons.  Moll  Thunder,  who  served  as 
chorus  to  this  homely  tragedy,  was  at  hand  with  her 
quaint,  shrewd  comment,  as  she  brought  Mrs.  Blair  her 
yearly  tribute  of  hickory  nuts  the  week  before  the 
wedding. 

"  He  !  he  !  She  look  pretty  much  fine  ;  same  as  cedar 
tree  out  dere,  all  red  vine  all  ober ;  nobody  tink  him 


TOO    LATE.  251 

ole  cedar  been   lightnin'-struck  las'  year.      He !  he ! 
Haint  got  no  heart  in  him  —  pretty  much  holler." 

One  bright  October  day  Hannah  was  married.  Par 
son  Day's  successor  performed  the  ceremony  in  the 
afternoon,  and  the  "  happy  couple  "  went  home  to 
Newfield  in  a  gig  directly.  Never  was  a  calmer  bride, 
a  more  matter-of-fact  wedding.  Sentiment  was  at  a 
discount  in  the  Blair  family ;  if  David  felt  anything  at 
parting  with  his  only  child,  he  repressed  its  expression  ; 
and  since  that  day  her  mother  never  could  forget, 
Hannah  had  wrought  in  poor  Mrs.  Blair's  mind  a  sort 
of  terror  toward  her  that  actually  made  her  absence  a 
relief,  and  the  company  of  the  little  "  bound  girl"  she 
had  taken  to  bring  up  a  pleasant  substitute  for  Han 
nah's  stern,  quiet  activity.  Every  bod}7  was  suited ; 
it  was  almost  a  pleasure  to  Mrs.  Maxwell  to  rule  over 
her  sunny  farm-house  and  become  a  model  to  all  back 
sliding  house-keepers  about  her.  Her  butter  always 
"  came  ;  "  her  bread  never  soured  ;  her  hens  laid  and 
set,  her  chickens  hatched,  in  the  most  exemplary  man 
ner  ;  nobody  had  such  a  garden,  such  a  loom  and 
wheel,  such  spotless  linen,  such  shiny  mahogany ;  there 
was  never  a  hole  in  her  husband's  garments  or  a  button 
off  his  shirt ;  the  one  thing  that  troubled  her  was  that 
her  husband  —  good,  honest,  tender  man —  had  during 
their  first  year  of  married  life  fallen  thoroughly  in  love 
with  her ;  it  was  not  in  his  genial  nature  to  live  in  the 
house  a  year  with  even  a  cat  and  not  love  it.  Hannah 
was  a  handsome  woman,  and  his  wife  ;  what  could  one 
expect?  But  she  did  not  expect  it ;  she  was  bored  and 
put  out  by  his  demonstrations  ;  almost  felt  a  cold  con 
tempt  for  the  love  he  lavished  on  her,  icy  and  irrespon 
sive  as  she  was,  though  all  the  time  ostensibly  sub- 


252  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

missive.  Josiah  felt  after  a  time  that  he  had  made  a 
mistake ;  but  he  had  the  sense  to  adapt  himself  to  it, 
and  to  be  content,  like  many  another  idolater,  with 
worship  instead  of  response.  Not  even  the  little 
daughter  born  in  the  second  year  of  their  marriage 
thawed  the  heart  so  long  frost-sealed  in  Hannah's 
breast ;  she  had  once  worshipped  a  false  god,  and 
endured  the  penalty ;  henceforward  she  would  be 
warned.  Baby  was  baptized  Dorothy,  after  her  father's 
dead  mother,  and  by  every  one  but  Hannah  that  quaint 
style  was  softened  into  Dolly.  Never  was  a  child 
better  brought  up,  everybody  said,  —  a  rosy,  sturdy, 
saucy  little  creature,  doing  credit  to  fresh  air  and  plain 
food ;  a  very  romp  in  the  barn  and  fields  with  her 
father,  whom  she  loved  with  all  her  warm,  wayward 
heart ;  but,  alas  !  a  child  whose  strong  impulses,  ardent 
feeling,  violent  temper,  and  stormy  will  were  never  to 
know  the  softening,  tempering  sweetness  of  real 
mother  love.  She  knew  none  of  those  tender  hours  of 
caressing  and  confidence  that  even  a  very  little  child 
enjoys  in  the  warmth  of  any  mother-heart,  if  not  its 
own  mother's  ;  no  loving  arms  clasped  her  to  a  mother's 
bosom  to  soothe  her  baby-griefs,  to  rest  her  childish 
weariness.  There  were  even  times  when  Hannah  Max 
well  seemed  to  resent  her  existence  ;  to  repel  her  affec 
tion,  though  her  duty  kept  her  inexorably  just  to  the 
child.  Dolly  was  never  punished  for  what  she  had  not 
done,  but  always  for  nearly  everything  she  did  do,  and 
services  were  exacted  from  her  that  made  her  childhood 
a  painful  memory  to  all  her  later  life.  Were  there 
butter  or  eggs  wanted  from  Wingfield  on  any  emer 
gency,  at  five  years  old  Dolly  would  be  mounted  on 
the  steady  old  horse  that  Josiah  had  owned  fifteen 


TOO    LATE.  253 

years,  and,  with  saddle-bags  swinging  on  either  side, 
sent  over  to  her  grandfather's  at  Wingfield  to  bring 
home  the  supplies, — a  long  and  lonely  road  of  five 
full-measured  miles  for  the  tiny  creature  to  traverse ; 
and  one  could  scarce  believe  the  story  did  it  not  come 
direct  to  these  pages  from  her  own  lips.  In  vain  was 
Josiah's  remonstrance  ;  for  by  this  time  Hannah  was 
fully  the  head  of  the  house,  and  the  first  principle  of 
her  rule  was  silent  obedience.  All  her  husband  could 
do  was  to  indulge  and  spoil  Dolly  in  private,  persist 
ently  and  bravely.  Alas  for  her,  there  was  one  day 
in  the  week  when  even  father  could  not  interfere  to 
help  his  darling.  Sunday  was  a  sound  of  terror  in  her 
ears  :  first  the  grim  and  silent  breakfast,  where  nobody 
dared  smile,  and  where  even  a  fixed  routine  of  food, 
not  in  itself  enticing,  became  at  last  tasteless  by  mere 
habit;  codfish-cakes  and  tea,  of  these,  "as  of  all 
carnal  pleasure,  cometh  satiety  at  the  last,"  according 
to  the  monk  in  "  Hypatia  ;  "  then,  fixed  in  a  high,  stiff- 
backed  chair,  the  pretty  little  vagrant  must  be  still, 
and  read  her  Bible  till  it  was  time  to  ride  to  church  ; 
till  she  was  taken  down  and  arrayed  in  spotlessness 
and  starch,  and  set  bodkinwise  into  the  gig  beside  her 
silent  mother  and  subdued  father. 

Once  at  meeting,  began  the  weariest  routine  of  all. 
Through  all  the  long  services,  her  little  fat  legs  swing 
ing  from  the  high  seat,  Dolly  was  expected  to  sit  per 
fectly  quiet ;  not  a  motion  was  allowed,  not  a  whisper 
permitted  ;  she  dared  not  turn  her  head  to  watch  a  pro 
fane  butterfly  or  a  jolly  bumblebee  wandering  about 
that  great  roof  or  tall  window.  Of  course  she  did  do 
it  instinctively,  recovering  herself  with  a  start  of  terror 
and  a  glance  at  her  mother's  cold  blue  eyes,  always 


254  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

fixed  on  Parson  Buck,  but  always  aware  of  all  going  on 
beside  her,  as  Dolly  knew  too  well.  At  noon,  after  a 
hurried  lunch  of  gingerbread  and  cheese,  the  child  was 
taken  to  the  nearest  house,  there  to  sit  through  the 
noon  prayer-meeting,  her  weary  legs  swinging  this  time 
off  the  edge  of  the  high  bed,  and  her  wearier  ears 
dinned  with  long  prayers.  Then,  as  soon  as  the  bell 
tolled,  off  to  the  meeting-house  to  undergo  another  long 
sermon,  till,  worn  out  mentally  and  physically,  the  last 
hour  of  the  seance  became  a  struggle  with  sleep,  painful 
in  the  extreme,  as  well  in  present  resistance  as  in  cer 
tainty  of  results  ;  for,  soon  as  poor  Dolly  reached  home, 
after  another  silent  drive,  she  was  invariably  t;iken  into 
the  spare  bedroom,  and  soundly  whipped  for  being 
restless  in  meeting.  And,  adding  insult  to  injury,  after 
dinner,  enjoyed  with  the  eager  appetite  of  a  health}r 
child  used  to  three  meals  on  a  week-day,  she  was  re 
quired  to  repeat  that  theological  torture,  — the  Assem 
bly's  Catechism,  — from  end  to  end.  But  in  spite  of 
all  this,  partly  because  Sunday  came  only  once  a  week, 
partly  because  of  her  father's  genial  nature  and  de 
voted  affection  for  his  girl,  which  grew  deeper  and 
stronger  constantly,  Dolly  did  not  miss  of  her  life  as 
many  a  morbid  character  might  have  in  her  place.  She 
grew  up  a  rosy,  sunu}T,  practical  young  woman,  with  a 
dominant  temper  toward  everybody  but  her  mother. 
Plump,  healthy,  and  pretty,  her  cheerim-ss  and  useful 
ness  would  have  made  her  popular  had  she  been  a  poor 
man's  daughter,  —  and  by  this  time  Josiah  Maxwell  was 
the  richest  man  in  the  town  ;  so  Dolly  had  plenty  of 
lovers,  and  in  due  time  married  a  fine  young  fellow,  and 
settled  down  at  home  with  her  parents,  who  were  almost 
as  much  pleased  with  Mr.  Henderson  as  was  their 


TOO    LATE.  255 

daughter.  But  all  this  time  Mrs.  Maxwell  preserved 
the  calm  austerity  of  her  manner,  even  to  her  child. 
She  did  her  duty  by  Doll}*.  She  prepared  for  her  mar 
riage  with  liberal  hand  and  unerring  judgment ;  but  no 
caress,  no  sympathetic  word,  no  slightest  expression  of 
affection,  soothed  the  girl's  agitated  heart  or  offered  her 
support  in  this  tender,  yet  exciting,  crisis  of  her  life. 

Hannah  Maxwell  made  her  life  a  matter  of  business, 
—  it  had  been  nothing  else  to  her  for  years  ;  it  was  an 
old  habit  at  sixty ;  and  she  was  well  over  that  age 
when  one  day  Dolly,  rocking  her  first  baby  to  sleep, 
was  startled  to  see  her  mother,  who  sat  in  her  upright 
chair  reading  the  county  paper,  fall  quietly  to  the  floor 
and  lie  there.  Baby  was  left  to  fret  while  her  mother 
ran  to  the  old  lady  and  lifted  her  spare,  thin  shape  to 
the  sofa;  but  she  did  not  need  to  do  more,  for  Mrs. 
Maxwell's  eyes  opened  and  her  hand  clasped  tight  on 
Dolly's. 

"  Do  not  call  any  one,"  she  whispered  faintly,  and, 
leaning  on  her  daughter's  shoulder,  her  whole  body 
shook  with  agonized  sobs.  At  last  that  heart  of  granite 
had  broken  in  her  breast ;  lightning-struck  so  long  ago, 
now  it  crumbled.  With  her  head  still  on  Dolly's  kind 
arm,  she  told  her  then  and  there  the  whole  story  of  her 
one  love,  her  solitar}*  passion,  and  its  fatal  ending. 
She  still  kept  to  herself  the  contents  of  that  anonymous 
letter,  only  declaring  that  she  knew,  and  the  writer 
must  have  been  aware  she  would  know,  from  the  hand 
writing  as  well  as  the  circumstances  detailed,  who  wrote 
it,  and  that  the  information  it  conveyed  of  certain  lapses 
from  virtue  on  the  part  of  Charles  Mayhew  must  be 
genuine. 

"  O  Dolly  !  "  groaned  the  smitten  woman,  "  when  he 


256  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

stood  under  my  window  and  called  me  I  was  wrung 
to  my  heart's  core.  The  pains  of  hell  gat  hold  upon 
me.  I  was  upon  the  floor,  with  my  arms  wound  about 
the  bed-rail  and  my  teeth  shut  like  a  vice,  lest  I  should 
listen  to  the  voice  of  nature,  and,  going  to  the  window 
to  answer  him,  behold  his  face.  Had  I  seen  him  I 
must  have  gone  down  and  done  what  I  thought  a  sin  ; 
so  I  steeled  myself  to  resist,  although  I  thought  flesh 
would  fail  in  the  end  ;  but  it  did  not.  I  conquered 
then  and  after.  Oh,  how  long  it  has  been  !  I  meant  to 
do  right,  Dolly ;  but  to-day,  when  I  saw  in  the  paper 
that  he  died  last  week  in  a  barn  over  Goshen  way,  a 
lonely,  drunken  pauper  —  Dolly,  my  heart  came  out  of 
its  grave  and  smote  me.  Had  I  been  a  meeker  woman, 
having  mercy  instead  of  judgment,  I  might  have  helped 
him  to  right  ways.  I  might  have  saved  him — I  loved 
him  so." 

The  last  words  struck  upon  her  hearer  with  the  force 
of  a  blow,  so  burning,  so  eager,  so  intense  was  the 
emphasis  :  "  I  loved  him  so!" 

Ah,  who  could  ever  kno\v  the  depths  out  of  which 
that  regretful  utterance  sprang  ! 

"Dear  mother,  dear  mother,"  sobbed  Dolly,  alto 
gether  overcome  by  this  sudden  revelation  of  gulfs  she 
had  never  dreamed  of,  —  a  heart  which,  1  >ng  repressed, 
convulsively  burst  at  last,  and  revealed  its  bleeding 
arteries. 

"Dear,  good  mother,  don't  feel  so  —  don't!  You 
meant  right.  Try  to  forgive  yourself.  If  you  made 
a  mistake  then,  try  to  forget  it  now.  Try  to  believe  it 
was  all  for  the  best  —  do,  dear." 

But  all  she  got  for  answer  was —  "  Dolly,  it  is  too 
late !  " 


Ml'  THANKSGIVING.  257 


MY   THANKSGIVING. 


"  I  MUST  go,  Annie  !  "  said  Joe,  speaking  with  a  calm 
resolution  that  I  felt  to  be  final  and  fatal ;  all  the 
more  so  that  he  put  his  arm  round  me  as  he  spoke, 
and  drew  me  to  him  in  a  clasp  so  close  that  it  said 
more  than  words.  Granny  looked  up  from  the  chim- 
ne3*-corner  where  she  sat,  and  said,  in  her  feeble  voice 
and  deliberate  accent :  — 

"  Who  died  for  us  !" 

These  few  words,  so  seemingly  irrelevant,  but 
merely  seeming  so  because  they  drew  a  deeper  signifi 
cance  than  from  the  shallow  present  alone,  smote  on 
my  ear  like  a  knell.  I  looked  up  into  Joe's  face  as  it 
bent  over  me,  brown  and  stern  and  sad,  and  as  I 
looked,  with  all  my  life  in  the  gaze,  a  cold  shadow 
stole  across  that  living  countenance :  it  grew  cold, 
rigid,  ghastly ;  the  month  parted  over  its  set  teeth ; 
the  eyelids  closed  ;  it  was  a  dead  face.  I  involuntarily 
uttered  a  little  shriek  ;  and  then  for  one  second  heard 
a  word  breathed  through  Joe's  lips,  and  knew  that  he 
was  not  dead,  but  praying. 

"  What  is  it,  Annie?"  said  he,  gently. 

"  O  Joe  !  I  cannot,  cannot  bear  it !  " 

"  My  child,  you  must.  This  is  no  time  for  a  man 
to  be  at  home,  no  time  for  a  woman  to  be  a  coward. 
You  must  not  make  me  weak,  or  send  me  away  lonely  ; 


258  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

for  I  should  be  doubly  alone  if  I  thought  my  —  my 
wife,  Annie,  could  not  strike  hand  with  me  in  this 
good  cause." 

The  words  breathed  a  steady  glow  of  strength  into 
me.  I  saw  what  I  ought  to  do,  what  I  must  do  for 
him  ;  and  from  its  broken  deeps  in  my  breaking  heart 
the  old  Puritan  blood  that  trickled  from  Winslow's  veins 
down  through  mine  answered  to  the  appeal,  and  fired 
my  brain  and  steadied  my  voice  with  its  firm  pulses. 
I  pulled  Joe's  dark  head  down  to  mine  and  kissed  his 
lips.  I  was  not  his  wife  yet, — perhaps  now  I  never 
should  be  ;  but  heart  and  soul  we  were  indissolubly 
bound,  and  I  had  a  right  to  kiss  him  without  blushes 
or  trembling.  Hard,  hard  it  was  !  Myriads  of  us  all 
over  this  struggling,  bleeding  country  know  how  hard  ; 
and  know  that  even  at  this  deadly  crisis  we  could  hold 
open  arms  to  rebel  women,  and  weep  with  them  in  the 
divine  reconciliation  of  a  mutual  sorrow.  Harder  it 
was  to  me  because,  just  now,  I  knew  for  the  first  time 
how  utterly  I  loved  Joe  ;  and  to  tell  why,  I  must  go 
back  a  little  into  my  past. 

Granny  Harding,  who  sat  there  in  the  fireplace 
corner,  was  Joe's  great-grandmother  as  well  as  mine, 
though  we  were  not  even  third  cousins  for  all  that. 
Joe's  grandfather  was  her  own  son,  my  grandmother 
was  her  step-daughter ;  the  relationship  was  scarce 
worth  mentioning,  nor  would  it  have  been  recorded, 
unless  in  the  big  Bible,  except  that  all  the  Harding 
race  had  always  lived  and  died  in  Stoneboro.  My 
grandmother  was  the  parson's  wife  there  ;  my  father 
succeeded  his  father  in  the  office,  and  was  called  "  the 
minister"  instead  of  "the  parson."  Father  and 
mother  both  died  when  I  was  nine  years  old,  and 


MY  THANKSGIVING.  259 

Cousin  Aristarchus  Harding,  Joe's  father,  was  my 
guardian.  So  I  went  to  his  house  —  the  old  Harding 
homestead  —  to  live,  and  found  there  Joe,  three  years 
older  than  I,  and  Cordelia,  of  my  own  age. 

Probably  the  reason  I  had  never  fallen  in  love,  as 
girls  say,  with  Joe,  was  because  I  lived  in  the  same 
house  with  him.  He  was  always  kind,  and  good,  and 
considerate  ;  but  I  was  romantic,  and  in  some  respects 
a  fool.  I  could  not  hang  my  ideal  lover  on  the  aspect 
of  a  young  man  I  saw  eating  and  drinking,  and  mow 
ing,  and  splitting  wood,  and  making  fires,  and  driving 
oxen  ;  a  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and  an  old  hat.  It 
was  impossible  to  find  a  sentimental  and  high-flown  in 
terest,  such  as  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw  would  have  ex 
cited,  in  an  ordinary  farmer,  who  only  did  his  duty 
from  day  to  day,  and  never  talked  about  congeniality 
of  soul  or  magnetic  sj-mpathies.  Joe  was  not  so  hard 
to  please  ;  he  began  to  love  me  very  early ;  every 
thing  I  did  was  right  and  pleasant  in  his  eyes.  I 
suited  him  exactly.  My  sauciness  bewitched  him ;  my 
prettiness,  such  as  it  was,  pleased  his  taste.  I  always 
knew  what  he  thought,  and  understood  what  he  meant 
to  say  when  he  could  not  express  it.  I  liked  the  things 
he  liked,  and  I  teased  his  monotonous  farm-life  into 
vitality.  I  was  his  romance  ;  and  it  cruelly  smote  Joe 
when  I  fell  in  love  with  —  somebody  else  ! 

"NVhy,  in  the  name  of  common-sense,  when  I  had 
beside  me  this  true,  generous,  gentle  man,  who  was  as 
much  devoted  to  me  as  a  man  can  be,  I  threw  myself 
away  on  a  hard,  cool,  selfish,  imperious  nature  that 
only  gave  me  the  careless  affection  one  bestows  on  a 
pretty  child  they  have  no  time  to  love,  Heaven  only 
knows !  It  is  a  part  of  the  mysteries  we  live  in,  that 


260  TI1E  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

women  have  done,  do,  and  -will  do  so  till  time  shall  be 
no  more  ;  and  there  must  be  some  good  purpose  of 
compensation  or  discipline  in  it ;  but  it  is  a  deadly  ex 
perience,  and  where  it  is  not  mortal  leaves  frightful 
scars  on  heart  and  mind.  I  am  inclined  to  think  those 
whose  ties  of  this  kind  culminate  in  marriage  suffer 
more  than  those  who  escape  before  it ;  in  either  case  it 
is  bad  enough.  I  was  eighteen  when  I  met  this  man, 
whose  name  I  have  no  desire  to  recall ;  ten  of  my 
life's  best  years  he  wasted.  In  those  ten  years  I  loved 
him  with  the  eager,  faithful  passion  of  youth  and 
womanhood,  grew  slowly  to  know  him,  ruminated  over 
this  bitter  herb  of  knowledge  till  my  life  was  burnt 
with  its  acrid  essence  into  pale  ashes.  For  five  years 
he  made  love  to  me,  taught  me  to  love,  to  doubt,  to 
dread  him  ;  then,  tired  of  his  toy,  he  left  me  and 
Stoneboro,  and  for  five  years  more  I  was  broken  in 
health  and  spirit  down  to  the  very  dust.  People  in 
Stoneboro  said  I  was  "disappointed."  So  I  was. 

In  the  meantime  Cordelia  married  and  moved  away. 
I  did  not  miss  her  particularly.  She  was  a  good, 
placid,  amiable  creature,  mildly  pious  and  very  common 
place.  I  should  have  loved-  her  better  if  I  had  not 
been  absorbed  in  my  own  affairs.  The  first  thing  that 
roused  me  from  my  self-absorbed  misery  was  Cousin 
Martha  Harding's  falling  into  a  severe  illness.  If  I 
loved  anybody  then  better  than  myself,  which  I  doubt, 
it  was  Cousin  Martha.  She  was  the  sweetest  of  sweet 
women ;  not  with  the  super-saccharine  manner  of 
fashion  and  society,  —  no  more  like  that  suave  and 
popular  sweetness  than  maple-sugar  is  like  Maillard's 
confectionery  ;  but  her  nature  was  as  fragrant  and  satis 
fying  as  wild  honey.  The  homely  flavor  of  a  New  Eug- 


THANKSGIVING.  261 


land  farm-life  touched  all  she  said  with  a  certain  quaint- 
ness,  and  her  serene,  bat  trenchant,  common-sense 
and  acute  insight  kept  her  unfailing  good-nature  from 
insipidity.  She  was  quite  deaf  ;  a  loss  which  added  to 
her  manner  the  exquisite  gentleness  rarely  found  except 
in  the  deaf,  and  very  rarely  among  them  ;  for  it  takes, 
as  old  Parson  Winslow,  my  grandfather,  used  to  say, 
"  grace  and  gifts  too  "  to  bear  such  a  deprivation  with 
patience  till  it  blossoms  into  a  beauty.  And  this  lovely, 
loving  woman,  who  had  been  my  mother  in  a  certain 
imperfect  sense,  fell  into  a  wasting  consumption  ;  and 
when  I  knew  it  I  put  aside  my  long  repining,  or  rather 
it  crept  away  before  the  face  of  so  vital  and  inevitable 
a  sorrow. 

But  all  this  long  time  Joe,  though  I  did  not  see  it, 
had  watched  me  with  the  tenderest  care,  —  his  heart 
had  been  scarce  less  wrung  with  my  trouble  than  my 
own,  —  but  had  given  no  sign  to  vex  me.  He  had  been 
my  protector  against  rude  tongues  and  the  pangs  that 
careless  ones  can  inflict.  He  had  tried  with  all  his 
might  to  allay  my  physical  suffering,  and  patiently 
striven  to  heal  my  mind  ;  but  in  vain.  I  had  adopted 
fully  the  girl's  idea  that  constancy  is  a  virtue  instead 
of  a  fact  ;  and  long  after  I  knew  thoroughly  how  ill- 
placed  my  love  had  been,  what  sure  and  life-long 
misery  I  had  lost  in  losing  that  love,  I  still  clung  to  its 
ghost  with  dreary  strenuousness,  cherished  its  memory, 
dwelt  on  its  frail  souvenirs,  recalled  its  raptures,  and 
spent  sleepless  nights  and  long  days  in  persuading  my 
self  that  my  heart  was  dead  in  my  breast,  that  I  had 
loved  once  for  all,  and  lived  my  life  out.  All  this  Joe 
saw  ;  but,  with  a  fidelity  that  shamed  my  pretence  to  it, 
he  really  loved  me  still.  He  did  not  grieve,  or  fret,  or 


262  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

give  up  his  time  and  health,  but,  like  the  true  man  he 
was,  only  threw  himself  into  harder  work,  and  fed  his 
self-denying  love  with  such  considerate  care,  such 
tender  thought,  such  unflagging  service  for  me,  that  he 
was  almost  happy  in  his  pure  self-devotion. 

He  grew  gray,  it  is  true,  in  those  ten  years  ;  his  dark 
curls  were  full  of  silver  threads  ;  the  gay,  bright  face, 
scarce  handsome,  but  full  of  intellect,  and  as  gracious 
as  summer  in  its  smile,  was  thinner  than  it  should  have 
been,  deep-lined  about  its  grave  lips,  and  serious  even 
to  sadness  ;  but  he  went  about  his  life's  business  so 
earnestly,  with  such  energy  and  cheer, —  was  so  helpful 
to  everybody,  so  kind,  so  strong,  —  that  nobody  knew 
what  he  felt,  or  how  he  suffered,  but  Cousin  Martha. 
To  her  he  told  every  thought  of  his  heart ;  and  it  was 
the  very  bitterness  of  death  to  Joe,  when  he  at  length 
was  forced  to  see  that  mortal  disease  had  fastened  on 
that  mother,  dearer  even  than  I. 

Three  long  years  life  flashed  and  faded,  and  flashed 
again,  in  that  racked  frame,  till  it  could  bear  no  longer 
those  terrible  alternations.  Consumption  has  in  it  a 
certain  practical  sarcasm  that  is  hard  to  bear  ;  it  makes 
a  mock  of  weakness  with  its  sudden,  but  false,  strength  ; 
it  fires  the  eye,  and  paints  the  cheek,  and  sends 
vivid  fever  through  the  leaping  pulse,  till  immortal 
youth  and  strength  seem  to  defy  death,  and  riot  in 
their  splendors  ;  then  comes  the  recoil  of  mortal  weak 
ness,  a  sunken  cheek,  a  colorless  lip,  a  dim  and  glazing 
eye,  coughs  that  rend  the  panting  breast,  pains  like  the 
torture  of  rack  and  wheel  in  every  wasted  limb,  the 
dreadful  gush  of  scarlet  blood,  the  utter  prostration  of 
arterial  life,  the  passive  sinking  of  nerve,  and  excite 
ment  of  brain  ;  and  then  again,  reeling  from  the  very 


MY  THANKSGIVING.  263 

abyss  of  death,  the  tormented  prey  of  this  vulture  rises 
to  life,  blooms,  brightens,  exults,  till  another  hour 
turns  the  descending  scale.  Three  long  years  Joe  and 
I  watched  and  waited  together.  Cordelia  was  in 
Minnesota  with  a  flock  of  little  children,  and  we  had 
Cousin  Martha  all  to  ourselves ;  for  granny  was  now 
ninety-three,  and  could  not  help  us,  except  that  she 
was  able,  with  very  little  aid,  to  take  care  of  herself. 
And  Cousin  Aristarchus  was  no  help  ;  his  great,  slow- 
beating  heart  knew  but  one  intense  passion,  and  that 
was  for  his  wife,  and  now  he  suffered  accordingly. 
He  would  come  into  the  room  where  she  lay,  stand  and 
look  at  her  with  such  an  expression  in  his  rough  face, 
reddened  with  summer  sun  and  winter  frost  through 
fifty-five  years  of  a  farmer's  hardships,  that  I  could 
not  look  at  him.  It  was  a  dull,  uncomprehending 
anguish  at  first,  like  the  look  of  an  animal  in  mortal 
pain  ;  but  deepening,  as  days  went  on,  into  the  extrem- 
it}'  of  human  suffering,  heightened  by  wild  conflict  with 
the  inevitable  Will  that  could  alone  save,  but  offered 
here  neither  help  nor  hope.  If  she  opened  her  large, 
languid  eyes  to  look  at  him,  or  smiled,  as  she  could 
sometimes  smile,  with  a  look  that  was  almost  super 
natural  in  its  triumph  of  love,  pity,  and  patience  over 
the  extremity  of  pain,  he  turned  at  once  and  went 
away — where,  nobody  knew.  I  happened  once  to  be 
in  the  barn,  looking  for  a  fresh  egg,  when  he  rushed  by, 
without  seeing  me  at  all,  and,  flinging  himself  at  length 
on  the  hay,  groaned,  and  sobbed,  and  writhed,  and  cried 
out  so  bitterly,  that  it  was  terrible  to  see  or  hear.  I 
crept  away  silently,  awed  and  sick  at  heart.  I  had  not 
supposed  such  feeling  was  possible  in  a  man.  I  had 
judged  them  all  with  warped  judgment,  from  the  one 


264  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

I  knew  best.  I  had  no  faith  in  them  ;  but  this  was 
real.  What  could  life  offer  to  a  woman  better  than 
such  a  mighty  love  as  this  ?  My  unconscious  egotism 
prompted  one  little  question  :  would  Joe  ever  love  like 
his  father? 

So,  as  I  said,  Mr.  Harding  could  not  share  our  care  ; 
he  felt  too  much,  and  no  discipline  of  life  had  ever 
taught  him  self-control.  But  we  had  no  need  of  aid. 
Joe  was  one  of  those  rare  men  who  have  a  woman's 
perception  as  well  as  a  man's  strength,  and  with  his 
aid  Cousin  Martha  needed  no  other  nurse  than  me. 

At  last  she  kept  her  bed  ;  she  could  not  sit  up  even 
for  an  hour ;  but  still  her  cheerful  voice,  her  unselfish 
regard  for  our  strength  and  comfort,  her  patience  in 
pain,  her  upholding  religion,  triumphed  over  these 
terrors  and  pangs  of  mortality.  I  could  not  understand 
her.  To  die  ;  to  be  exiled  forever  from  this  body  and 
this  dear  earth  ;  to  tempt  an  utterly  untried  existence, 
to  lose  that  locality  of  place  and  time  that  the  trem 
bling  soul  lays  hold  of  when  it  shudders  at  its  own 
eternity  and  infinite  capacities  ;  to  enter  the  cold  new 
ness  of  another  world,  austere  from  its  very  strange 
ness,  with  such  simple  courage,  such  certainty,  such 
calm  faith, — surprised  me  all  the  time;  it  seemed  in 
credible.  But  Joe  also  partook  of  this  vital  belief. 
He  talked  calmly  of  that  near  and  unseen  world,  and  of 
his  mother's  passage  thither.  In  the  midst  of  his  ten- 
derest  cares  he  had  lips  overflowing  with  the  trumpet- 
blasts  of  the  gospel ;  his  face  kindled  with  victory,  his 
voice  thrilled  with  assurance  for  her,  even  while  the 
depth  of  settled  sorrow  in  his  eye  showed  no  stir,  no 
spark  ;  it  was  for  himself  he  had  to  grieve,  and  he  for 
got  himself ;  for  her  he  was  triumphant.  If  I  had 


MY  THANKSGIVING.  265 

stopped  to  look  into  my  own  heart  I  should  have  seen 
how  effectually  it  was  laying  hold  upon  another  love, 
as  different  from  my  first  as  the  yellow  wheat  ear  is 
from  the  springing  blade. 

But  while  day  after  day  I  drew  nearer  to  Joe  in  feel 
ing,  and  regarded  him  with  such  a  quiet  sense  of  safety 
and  repose,  I  did  not,  could  not,  stop  to  dream  of  love. 
I  was  learning  a  new  lesson,  —  learning  to  believe.  The 
feeble  emotional  pretext  I  had  called  religion,  and  pro 
fessed  as  such,  that  had  crumbled  away  in  the  convul 
sive  grasp  of  sorrow  and  left  me  unsupported,  was 
being  gradually  replaced  by  a  living  faith.  Blessed  is 
the  woman  who  loves  a  man  better  than  she  is  !  It  is 
not  often  so ;  but  it  is  the  sure  seal  of  that  marriage 
that  God  ordained,  and  typified  by  his  love  for  the 
Church,  when  King  and  Priest  reign  and  minister  in 
the  sacred  cloisters  of  home,  and  give  themselves, 
even  as  he  gave  himself,  for  the  love  and  teaching  of 
the  weaker.  I  did  not  know  where  I  was,  till  one  day, 
about  a  month  before  Cousin  Martha  died,  I  observed 
her  look  follow  Joe  wistfully  out  of  the  room,  and  then 
turn  to  me  with  a  curious  expression  of  regret  and 
longing.  Involuntarily  I  said  :  — 

"What  is  it,  dear?" 

"  Come  here,  Annie,"  said  she.  So  I  went  and 
kneeled  down  by  the  bedside. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something,  my  child:  Joe 
loves  you  dearly." 

"O  cousin,  you  don't  know!  He  doesn't;  how 
could  he?" 

"  But  he  does  ;  and  has  for  this  fourteen  years." 

"  Love  me  !     I  am  not  fit  for  Joe  to  love." 

"  Annie,  I  don't  believe  dying  wishes  are  more  to  be 


266  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

regarded  than  living  ones ;  they  are  all  liable  to  be 
short-sighted  and  selfish.  You  must  promise  not  to 
feel  bound  by  any  desire  of  mine  ;  but  I  must  tell  you 
how  happy  it  would  make  me  if  you  could  love  Joe 
enough  to  marry  him." 

I  buried  my  head  in  my  hands.  "  Cousin  Martha, 
you  are  mistaken.  Joe  doesn't  love  me  :  think  how 
old  I  am,  —  I  was  thirty  last  spring,  —  and  how  homely 
I  am,  and  not  good  either  ;  and  —  and,  besides,  I  have 
loved  somebody  else." 

A  smile  just  glittered  wanly  in  her  eyes,  and  she  laid 
her  hand  on  my  hair,  as  I  looked  up  at  her  with  a  burn 
ing  face.  "  Poor  child  !  "  said  she.  "  I  know  how  you 
have  suffered,  though  I  never  said  so  to  you.  Those 
things  are  best  kept  silent.  But  Joe  is  a  better  man 
than  that  one ;  and  he  loves  you  better ;  believe  it,  for 
I  know  it.  And  now  we  will  let  the  matter  rest." 

"God  is  good!"  said  granny.  She  had  a  strange 
way  of  coming  out  with  apparently  irrelevant  bits  of 
Scripture,  or  odd  proverbs,  or  sayings  of  her  own,  at 
times  when  no  one  supposed  she  heard  or  saw  what 
was  going  on,  as  she  seemed  sunk  in  her  habitual 
revery. 

"  Yes,  he  is  !  "  said  Cousin  Martha. 

I  think  I  said  so,  too,  mentally,  as  I  got  up  and 
went  out  of  doors  into  the  little  bit  of  woods  that  sloped 
up  the  hill-side  behind  the  barn,  where  I  sat  down  under 
a  great  oak-tree  through  whose  gnarled  boughs,  just 
roughened  with  buds,  the  March  sunshine  streamed 
strangely  warm.  I  could  not  believe  it !  Was  I  in 
love  again?  Was  this  strong  torrent  of  emotion  a  new 
freshet  in  the  stream  that  had  wrecked  me  before? 
Did  I  love  Joe  Harding?  I'm  afraid  I  did,  even  then. 


MT   THANKSGIVING.  267 

I  recognized  with  a  certain  pang  the  old  rush  of  feel 
ing,  yet  not  now  the  vagne,  feverish  emotion  that  had 
wrapped  my  whole  nature  in  a  light  blaze  before ;  but 
a  deeper,  steadier  fire,  that  rose  heavenward  with 
solemn  aspiration  as  from  an  altar,  and  promised  to  be 
life-giving  instead  of  deadly.  I  ought,  perhaps,  to  be 
sorry  to  confess  that  I  did  not  stop  to  regret  my  beau 
tiful  theory  of  constancy ;  I  never  was  a  very  intro 
spective  person.  The  thing  was  gone,  and  there  was 
an  end  of  it  for  me.  The  theory  had  disproved  itself, 
and  so  was  negatived  ;  that  was  only  another  fact.  I 
found  lime  afterward  to  be  heartily  glad  that  I  could 
love  again,  and  so  much  more  deeply.  This  unuttera 
ble  rest,  this  serene  rapture,  one  hour  of  which  was 
worth  a  year  of  the  excitement  and  restless  wearying 
delight  of  my  youth,  was  certainly  a  thing  to  be  glad 
of,  unless  one  had  been  more  or  less  than  a  woman. 

One  thing  struck  me  to  the  heart  whenever  I  dared 
look  that  way :  the  possibility  that  Joe  might  not  love 
me,  after  all ;  that  Cousin  Martha  was  mistaken.  It 
seemed  so  impossible.  My  youth  was  gone,  my  beauty 
faded,  my  vivacity  all  fled  ;  I  had  been  made  the  sport 
of  another  man,  and  thrown  away  by  him  when  he 
tired.  Was  there  in  humanity  such  redeeming  love  as 
could  stoop  to  gather  this  weed  of  my  life  and  wear  it 
for  a  cognizance  ?  I  should  as  soon  think  of  giving  to 
a  lover  some  wan  and  withered  rose  picked  up  from  the 
pavement,  without  beauty  or  freshness,  as  the  worthless 
gift  I  was.  Cousin  Martha  must  be  mistaken.  How 
could  he  love  me?  Before,  and  of  that  other,  I  had 
said  so  mai\y  times  with  hot  and  salt  tears,  "  How 
could  he  help  loving  me  ?  " 

1  went  back  to  my  room  and  looked  into  the  glass ;  a 


268  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

new  bloom  shone  on  the  old  face,  but  did  not  trans 
figure  it.  There  were  the  pale,  worn  features  ;  the  sad 
eyes ;  the  bands  of  hair  still  shining,  but  all  threaded 
with  snow  ;  the  lightly  tinted  lips  that  were  so  tremulous 
and  grieving  now,  instead  of  smiling  and  firm.  I  was 
old  :  I  turned  away  with  a  sigh  from  that  vision.  Men 
do  not  love  beauty  more  than  women,  only  they  are 
more  frank  to  own  it ;  and  to  lose  mine,  which  was 
always  that  of  color  and  outline  rather  than  feature, 
was  hard. 

Cousin  Martha  grew  worse  that  night,  and  kept 
worse.  No  more  respites  for  her  ;  the  hour  came  fast 
that  should  take  her  from  us,  and,  except  as  a  thought 
that  I  kept  to  rest  m}'self  with  at  intervals  of  watching 
and  nursing,  I  heard  and  knew  no  more  of  Joe's  love 
for  me. 

At  length  she  died,  not  with  any  parting  word  or 
message,  not  with  any  scene  ;  but  fell  asleep  like  a 
tired  child,  holding  her  husband's  hand.  There  was  no 
need  of  audible  triumph  in  her  testimony  ;  her  life  was 
her  witness,  and  they  who  had  seen  its  quiet  course 
knew  from  what  source  it  sprung,  to  what  glad  sea  it 
hastened.  Joe  and  I  also  sat  beside  her,  and  when  we 
saw  that  it  was  over  he  gently  lifted  her  hand  from  his 
father's  clasp  and  laid  it  back  at  her  side.  Mr.  Hard 
ing  looked  up  with  dreadful  questioning  in  his  eyes, 
and  then  looked  at  her.  He  went  out  of  the  door  and 
out  of  the  house,  and  for  hours  we  saw  him  no  more. 
Joe  would  not  let  him  be  looked  for,  and  at  sunset  he 
reappeared.  He  never  said  anything,  but  from  that 
day  was  a  broken  man ;  his  grizzled  hair  turned  white, 
his  keen  eye  was  dimmed,  his  voice  husky  ;  even  the 
rugged  and  set  features  learned  to  quiver  with  passing 


MY  THANKSGIVING.  269 

emotions ;  the  firm  temper  became  fitful ;  he  asked 
help  that  he  laughed  at  before  ;  he  clung  to  those  about 
him  in  little  ways  hitherto  unknown  to  him.  I  never 
loved  him  as  much.  Granny  looked  at  Cousin  Martha's 
pallid,  but  fair,  aspect,  and  took  the  wasted  hand  in 
hers :  she  did  not  moan  nor  weep ;  all  she  said  was, 
' '  Behold  how  He  loved  him !  " 

There  was  no  other  change  than  this  inevitable 
change  of  loss.  The  fire  seemed  to  have  gone  out  of 
our  lives,  the  light  to  be  extinguished,  it  is  true  ;  but 
the  household  ways  went  on  as  usual,  for  I  had  taken 
charge  of  them  long  before,  and  now  they  were  my 
sole  occupation. 

One  day  in  May,  when  all  the  trees  were  full  of  opal 
tints,  pink,  or  green,  or  dusky  with  young  buds,  and 
even  the  oaks  put  out  tiny  velvet  leaves  of  tender  pink 
from  the  heart  of  every  new  shoot,  Joe  asked  me  to  go 
to  the  graveyard  with  him  ;  and  when  we  had  planted 
by  his  mother's  grave  a  rose-bush  and  some  English 
violets,  we  strolled  away  into  the  woods  and  sat  down 
on  a  log.  Below  us  lay  the  Stoneboro  valley,  with  its 
bright  river  sparkling  in  and  out  among  the  hills,  and 
a  soft  south  wind  blew  on  us  with  odors  of  dead  and 
new  leaves,  the  fresh  scent  of  grass,  and  breath  of 
orchards  in  bloom.  We  sat  a  long  time  in  silence,  and 
then  Joe  said  :  — 

"Annie,  can  you  possibly  love  me  enough?" 

"  I'll  try,"  said  I,  with  half  a  laugh,  though  I  could 
hardly  speak  at  all. 

He  put  his  arm  round  me  and  kissed  me  gravely,  and 
that  was  all  we  said.  I  felt  so  safe,  so  rested,  so  con 
soled.  I  did  not  want  words,  and  he  seemed  not  to 
have  them.  I  forgot  how  old  and  plain  and  uudeserv- 


270  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

ing  I  was  :  I  ought  to  have  refused  him  for  his  own 
good  ;  but  I  couldn't.  I  was  not  very  good,  and  I  was 
so  glad  he  loved  me. 

When  we  went  home  there  was  a  little  blaze  kindled 
on  the  kitchen  hearlh ;  we  sat  there  in  winter  and 
spring  always,  for  it  was  never  used  as  a  kitchen,  and 
granny's  bedroom  opened  out  of  it.  To-night  she  sat 
there  in  the  flicker  of  the  blaze,  knitting  placidly  as 
usual.  Her  delicate,  pale  face  ;  her  soft  hair,  white  as 
milk-weed  down  ;  her  light  gra}-  dress  and  full-folded 
white  cap,  handkerchief,  and  linen  apron  gave  her  the 
look  of  a  white  moth,  such  as  peers  in  through  the 
window  on  some  June  night,  with  elfin  visage  and 
bright,  dark  eyes.  She  looked  up  as  we  came  in,  and 
gazed  intently  at  us  for  a  minute,  then  nodded  with  a 
satisfied  air,  and  said,  "  Fulfilling  of  the  law." 

Joe  smiled,  and  I  believe  I  blushed  ;  next  morning 
Cousin  Aristarchus,  when  I  came  down  to  breakfast, 
came  and  shook  hands  with  me,  and  looked  the  other 
way  all  the  time.  It  was  all  he  could  do,  and  a  great 
effort  for  him ;  so  I  accepted  it  as  a  congratulation  and 
welcome.  It  was  about  three  weeks  after  this  that  Joe 
came  in  and  told  me  he  had  enlisted  and  was  going  to 
the  war,  as  I  said  in  the  beginning  of  my  story.  He 
had  longed  to  go  all  the  time,  but  could  not  think  it 
right  to  leave  his  mother,  especially  as  she  begged  him 
to  stay  with  her  while  she  lived.  Now,  when  rebellion 
was  higher-handed  than  ever,  the  army  of  the  Peninsula 
in  deadly  straits,  the  West  in  terror,  and  two  new  calls 
proclaimed  by  the  President,  go  he  must.  Now  was 
the  time  for  men,  if  ever. 

I  had  to  consent,  of  course.  I  am  not  a  heroic 
woman.  I  was  not  glad  to  have  him  go,  yet  I  should 


MY  THANKSGIVING.  271 

have  been  thoroughly  ashamed  had  he  stayed ;  doubly 
ashamed  to  have  felt  afterward  that,  even  at  the  saving 
of  his  life,  he  had  deserted  his  country  at  need.  No. 
Unhapp}'  enough  are  those  women  who  lose  their 
dearest  in  battle,  though  they  fight  and  fall  in  the 
good  cause ;  but  wretched,  far  beyond  any  loss,  are 
they  whose  unwomanly  fears  keep  from  the  country's 
service  men  she  needs  —  who  must  sa}r  to  their  children 
afterward,  answering  their  child-questions,  "  Your 
father  did  not  go  to  the  war ;  I  would  not  let  him." 

No  such  fate  for  me.  Dear  as  Joe  was  to  me, 
dearer  every  day,  —  far  more  dear  than  I  thought  any 
living  creature  could  ever  be,  —  I  choked  down  my 
agonies  of  foreboding,  and  let  him  go.  In  this  my 
sole  comfort  was  preparing  his  outfit.  Granny  knit 
him  more  stockings  than  he  could  take,  and  every 
little  contrivance  that  might  add  to  his  comfort  I  took 
pride  in  discovering  and  procuring.  He  enlisted  as 
private  in  a  company  of  the  Sixteenth  Connecticut 
Volunteers,  which  in  August  went  into  camp  at  Hart 
ford.  Once  he  came  home  to  Stoneboro  for  a  three- 
days'  furlough,  and  we  had  one  talk  that  I  shall  never 
forget. 

"  Annie,"  said  he,  "I  want  you  to  promise  me 
something.  I  know  how  you  will  miss  me,  and  how 
hard  a  time  3^011  will  have ;  but  promise  you  will  not 
let  3*our  grief  interfere  with  the  usual  routine  of  home. 
I  don't  mean  simply  on  granny's  account  and  father's, 
but  on  your  own.  Keep  up  all  the  old  ways,  for  the 
sake  of  your  own  quiet.  Don't  let  the  farm  go  back 
because  I'm  not  here ;  father  will  feel  more  interest 
in  it  if  you  are  interested.  Go  to  church,  and  to 
singing-meeting,  and  to  sewing- society ;  wherever  I 


272  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

am,  dead  or  alive,  don't  omit  to  keep  Thanksgiving ; 
don't  forget  Christmas  ;  and  the  poor  —  you  know  you 
have  them  always  with  you,  He  said." 

"  I  will,  Joe,  i'f  I  can." 

"You  can,  dear,  if  you  begin  straight.  Habit  is  a 
great  help,  and  in  this  quiet  little  village  there  is  no 
excitement  to  divert  your  mind,  which  you  must  keep 
as  firm  and  calm  as  3'ou  can  ;  for,  Annie,  —  you  must 
look  it  in  the  face,  —  it  is  very  probable  I  may  not 
come  back,  and  these  old  people  will  only  have  you 
left." 

There  was  no  answer  to  be  made  to  this.  The  next 
day  Joe  bade  us  good-by  and  went  off.  "We  heard 
from  him  twice  before  they  left  Hartford :  he  was  well 
and  gravely  cheerful. 

As  for  me,  there  was  but  one  course  left,  —  I  must- 
work.  No  other  quiet  but  that  of  constant  action  and 
effort  could  allay  the  dreadful  fever  of  my  thoughts.  I 
was  naturally  both  anxious  and  imaginative, —  fatal 
combination  for  a  woman  whose  place  is  to  wait  and 
endure  !  So  by  day  I  worked  as  I  never  had  before. 
I  let  the  girl  whose  place  it  was  to  take  care  of  the 
milk,  butter,  and  cheese,  go  home  to  her  mother,  as 
she  had  long  intended  to  do  at  this  time,  without  try 
ing  to  supply  her  place.  I  could  do  her  work,  as  far 
as  skill  went,  better  than  she,  and  the  constant  excite 
ment  of  anxiety  made  me  strong.  I  had  to  rise  early, 
and  work  hard  ;  labor  of  real  and  stringent  grasp  held 
me  all  day  ;  from  dawn  till  blank  night  I  was  busy. 
There  was  the  milk  of  twelve  cows  to  strain,  and  set, 
and  skim  ;  the  milk-room,  and  the  cheese-room,  and 
the  ice-cellar  to  be  kept  spotless  and  of  just  tempera 
ture  ;  there  were  rows  of  cheeses,  pressing,  ripening, 


MY  THANKSGIVING.  273 

drying,  to  be  looked  at  twice  a  day  ;  there  was  curd  to 
set,  and  cut,  and  drain,  and  salt ;  moulds  to  be  scoured, 
cloths  to  be  scalded ;  daily  the  great  churn,  that  a  man 
had  to  turn,  yielded  me  its  crumbly  mass  of  yellow 
butter,  to  be  worked,  salted,  moulded,  and  packed  for 
market,  —  butter  that  must  be  firm  and  sweet,  hard  as 
wax,  and  gold-yellow,  lest  our  farm  should  lose  its 
reputation  for  the  best  butter  sent  to  Boston.  Then 
came  numberless  pans,  and  cream-jars,  and  butter- 
pails  to  wash :  these  never  passed  out  of  my  hands, 
lest  the  careless  eyes  of  a  servant  might  leave  some 
grain  of  milk,  some  smear  of  cream,  that  should  turn 
sour  and  spoil  my  work.  Besides  these  things  there 
was  granny  to  care  for ;  she  needed  some  help  to  dress 
her  in  those  quaint  white  folds  and  frills  that  she  de- 
"lighted  to  wear ;  help  she  needed,  too,  in  order  to  lay 
them  aside,  and  put  herself  into  sleeping  order,  —  for 
never  by  any  chance  was  the  delicately  stiff  cap  per 
mitted  to  rest  by  day  against  a  chair-back,  or  the  folds 
of  cambric  that  covered  her  breast  ruffled  by  one 
minute  of  repose  out  of  position  :  if  she  slept  by  day, 
it  was  bolt  upright,  as  she  sat.  The  last  thing  at  night 
was  work  too :  the  night's  milk  was  to  be  strained  and 
set ;  that  of  the  night  before  must  be  skimmed,  and  the 
emptied  pans  scalded  and  dried  ;  by  nine  o'clock  I  was 
so  tired  out  that  sleep  caught  me  without  my  knowing 
it,  and  in  dreamless  exhaustion  I  knew  nothing  till  the 
noisy  fowls  in  the  poultry-yard  woke  me  to  dawn  and 
its  necessary  duties.  Yet  not  all  this  work  and  weari 
ness  kept  my  eager,  restless  thoughts  from  Joe.  They 
followed  him,  invisible,  yet  faithful,  couriers,  on  every 
step  of  his  journey, — into  camp,  at  drill;  farther  I 
knew  not,  —  till  in.  so  short  a  time  after  he  left  Hartford 


274  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

that  it  seemed  to  me  scarce  the  lapse  of  three  days, 
though  I  knew  it  was  more,  the  news  of  Antietam 
struck  us  like  a  bolt  from  the  clear  sky. 

I  did  not  believe  it  when  Cousin  Aristarchus  told  me. 
I  laughed. 

"Why,"  said  I,  "  it  is  impossible.  The  Sixteenth 
hadn't  their  arms,  they  were  but  just  there  ;  they  could 
not  have  been  sent  into  a  battle." 

"They  were,"  said  he,  turning  his  keen  gray  eyes 
away  from  me,  and  dropping  his  white  head  slowly,  as 
if  it  were  heavy  with  some  heavy  grief.  My  heart 
fell. 

"Is  there  any  definite  news?  —  any  list  of  dead  or 
wounded,  cousin?"  said  I,  the  words  faltering,  as  I 
spoke. 

"  No,"  said  he.  "  The  news  came  to  Hartford  yes 
terday  morning,  or  Saturday  night, — I  don't  know 
which.  There  was  news  of  one  officer  killed  ;  no  par 
ticulars  further." 

He  stopped,  and  looked  aside  out  of  the  window ; 
he  had  not  finished.  I  waited  breathless  for  the  next 
words. 

"  No,"  he  said,  at  length,  drawing  a  long  breath, 
and  saying  over,  as  if  it  were  a  lesson,  the  very  words, 
I  was  sure,  he  had  seen  ou  the  bulletin  at  the  post- 
office  :  "Nothing  definite  as  to  names;  the  Sixteenth 
cut  to  pieces." 

I  sat  down  in  the  nearest  chair,  and  he  walked  out 
of  the  kitchen.  Grief  never  comes  so ;  there  is  a 
shock,  a  paralysis,  a  shuddering  novelty,  but  not 
grief.  I  sat  there  still  as  the  dread  grasp  that  stiffens 
every  fibre  holds  the  paralytic.  I  could  not  stir, 
because  I  forgot  how.  I  was  lost  in  one  great  spasm 


MY  THANKSGIVING.  275 

of  resistance,  of  repulsion.  I  did  not,  would  not, 
believe  anything  had  come  to  Joe.  Presently  sense 
and  strength  returned  to  me.  What  a  fool  I  was  !  I 
had  heard  nothing,  knew  nothing.  Why  should  not 
Joe  be  saved  as  well  as  any  other  man?  I  tried  to 
laugh,  as  one  does  sometimes  in  a  dark  room 
waking  from  fearful  dreams,  to  reassure  himself,  but 
the  old  kitchen  walls  seemed  to  make  a  hollow  echo  of 
my  forced  mirth;  or  was  it  hollow  of  itself?  Granny 
came  out  from  her  room,  tottering  on  the  cane  that 
Joe  had  wrought  and  ornamented  for  her. 

"  Crackling  thorns  !  "  said  she,  lifting  up  her  white 
head  and  looking  vacantly  before  her.  A  cold  shiver 
ran  over  me.  I  am  superstitious,  like  all  women  ;  and 
granny's  words,  quaint  and  irrelevant  as  they  seemed 
to  others,  I  had  a  sort  of  reverence  for  that  gave  them 
prophetic  significance  in  my  eyes.  Yes,  my  laughter 
was  crackling  thorns  indeed !  The  fire  was  of  briers 

O 

that  rankled  in  my  grasp  still ;  trie  flame  but  one  flash, 
vivid  and  noisy,  that  quivered,  flared,  fell  into  ashes. 

I  helped  her  to  her  chair,  and  turned  into  the  cheese- 
room  for  my  work,  sick  at  heart.  There  is  a  strange 
balsamic  power  in  routine,  when  the  very  depths  of 
life  break  up  under  your  feet ;  the  daily  order  of  occu 
pation  is  a  light,  but  tenacious,  crust  above  those  vol 
canic  surges ;  and  though  you  feel  their  sickening 
undulations,  and  hear  their  threatening  roar  beneath, 
yet  the  gulf  does  not  open  and  swallow  you  up,  —  the 
thunder  is  muffled,  the  fires  smoulder.  There  is  a 
place  for  human  feet  to  tread,  a  point  for  the  lever  of 
divine  faith  to  rest  on.  I  think  the  cheeses  I  salted 
and  put  to  press  that  day  were  as  well  done  as  ever. 
I  knew  what  I  had  to  do ;  yet  it  was  not  merely  the 


276  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

grind  of  a  machine.    It  demanded  judgment,  accuracy, 
attention  ;  and  it  saved  me  from  myself. 

The  next  day  I  rode  down  to  the  post-office.  Mr. 
Harding  left  me  sitting  in  the  wagon  in  a  little  pine- 
wood  a  few  rods  from  the  village  shop  where  the  office 
was  kept,  while  he  went  for  the  news,  however  it  might 
come.  It  was  a  hot,  quiet  autumn  day.  As  yet  no 
leaves  were  turned,  but  the  indescribable  foreboding  of 
death  and  decay,  that  breathes  in  every  air  and  sound 
of  fall,  hushed  the  whole  land  with  funereal  quiet ; 
purple  asters  starred  the  edges  of  the  road,  golden- 
rods  held  their  feathered  masses  upright  in  the  paler 
sunshine,  crowds  of  life  everlasting  crouched  with  their 
dead,  yet  deathless,  blooms  on  every  barren  knoll,  — 
a  strange,  dried  sweetness  filled  the  air  everywhere. 
But  here,  under  the  pine-trees,  the  last  fires  of  summer 
fused  from  the  acute  leaves  and  rough  boughs  their 
antique  odor  of  fragrant  resins,  that  has  a  breath 
beyond  spice,  and  a  perfume  surpassing  flowers.  Both 
preservative  and  revivifying,  it  assailed  other  avenues 
of  my  nature  than  the  sense  it  at  once  stimulated  and 
satisfied ;  for  the  brain  that  it  entered,  through  the 
subtlest  of  all  entrances,  expanded  with  insatiable 
longings,  and  fled  away  from  the  weary  weight  of  space 
and  sense  into  some  upper  air,  where  the  ample  ether 
was  keen  life  and  the  light  immortal  knowledge ; 
through  all  toned  to  finite  capacities  by  the  low  whisper 
of  awful,  yet  sweet,  sorrow,  that  crept  from  the  boughs 
with  that  exhaling  odor,  and  breathed  to  the  ear  its 
ocean  song  of  plaintive  despair,  the  very  pulse-tune  of 
life  and  its  immutable  dead-march  toward  eternity.  In 
that  atmosphere  that  lulls  my  brain  and  exalts  it 
beyond  any  other  known  influence  I  drew  deep 


MY  THANKSGIVING.  277 

draughts  of  rest,  and  when  I  heard  a  man's  tread 
coming,  heavy  and  blundering,  along  the  soft  sand 
foot-path,  though  I  knew  by  the  very  weight  and 
stumble  of  that  firm  foot  that  he  was  blind  with  grief, 
I  wore  a  calm  face  to  meet  Mr.  Harding' s  blurred  eyes, 
and  held  out  a  strong  hand  to  help  him  find  his  way  to 
the  seat  beside  me.  He  thrust  a  telegram  slip  into  my 
hands,  seized  the  reins,  struck  the  patient  horse  he 
never  struck  before  a  blow  that  sent  it  off  at  full  speed, 
and  I  opened  the  crumpled  slip.  Its  peculiar  ominous 
mixture  of  print  and  writing  ran  thus  :  — 

"A.  Harding,  Stoneboro.  — Capt.  A.  H.  Banks  killed  on  the 
field.  Private  J.  Harding  missing.  —  A.  J.  BOLLES,  2d  Lieuten 
ant." 

"Missing!  only  missing  !"  There  must  have  been 
a  great  deal  of  latent  hope  in  my  nature  to  have  seized 
on  that  frail  straw  as  if  it  were  a  rock  of  refuge ;  but  I 
did.  Cousin  Aristarchus  looked  around  at  me  with 
eyes  of  such  wonder  and  grief  at  my  exclamation  that 
I  was  half  vexed. 

"  Why,  cousin  !  "  said  I,  —  "  missing  is  nothing. 
He  is  safe  somewhere.  We  shall  hear  from  him  to 
morrow." 

"Shall  we?"  said  he,  vacantly. 

"  Why,  of  course  we  shall !  Only  think  —  not  dead, 
like  poor  Banks  ;  not  wounded  ;  only  missing !" 

He  whipped  the  horse  again  with  a  fierce  stroke,  but 
said  nothing.  In  ten  minutes  we  were  at  home,  and  I 
had  told  granny.  She  looked  at  me  with  her  bright, 
yet  inexpressive,  eyes,  and  said,  slowly,  "  The  letter 
killeth,  but  the  spirit  giveth  life."  What  on  earth  had 
this  to  do  with  me  or  my  news?  I  was  used  to  her 


278  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

odd  speeches,  but  this  one  seemed  more  irrelevant  than 
usual.  It  haunted  me  all  day  in  my  thoughts  of  Joe,  — 
merciful  thoughts,  sent,  I  believe  truly,  from  above, 
that  I  might  not  be  smitten  at  once,  but  rather  led 
gently  through  the  vallej-  of  the  shadow.  "  The  letter 
killeth ! "  At  last  it  dawned  on  me  :  granny  and  his 
father  had  indeed  taken  the  letter  of  the  message,  and 
their  hope  was  dead.  They  were  old  and  broken  ;  but 
I  was  beginning  life,  and  its  vital  spirit  of  love  and 
action  upheld  me  ;  but,  then,  why  should  they  despair? 
I  did  not  know  then  that  granny's  father,  the  hero  of 
the  race,  who  died  in  the  Revolution,  had  been  just  so 
reported  —  "  Missing,"  and  found,  after  bitter  weeks  of 
winter,  through  which  wife  and  babies  waited  and 
watched  in  vain,  a  stark  and  stiffened  corpse  near 
Ticonderoga,  scalped,  and  pierced  with  English  bullets 
through  heart  and  limb.  No  wonder  that  they  de 
spaired. 

Slowly  the  days  went  on.  Cousin  Aristarchus  more 
than  once  resolved  to  go  on  and  search  for  Joe  ;  twice 
was  all  but  ready,  and  then  decided  that  it  was  worse 
than  useless,  for  he  could  not  follow  him  on  the  rebel 
track,  and  as  yet  there  came  no  trace  of  him  by  report 
or  message.  He  seemed  all  bowed  and  warped  by 
sorrow  in  mind  as  well  as  body  ;  his  energy  was  gone, 
his  life  faded  out.  Oh,  how  I  wished  then  to  be  a 
man  !  I  longed  and  pined  to  go  and  look  for  Joe.  I 
thought  I  could  have  tracked  his  flight,  and  rescued 
him  whatever  obstacles  interposed.  So  the  days  crept 
on  into  weeks,  and  heavy  gloom  settled  down  upon  us, 
broken  only  by  rare  gleams  of  hope  as  bits  of  detail, 
creeping  out  in  the  papers,  recounted  the  death,  or  the 
illness,  or  the  wounded  condition  of  one  after  another 


THANKSGIVING.  279 


at  first,  like  ours,  reported  missing  ;  gleams  that  only 
made  the  gloom  heavier  in  its  return,  as  the  vivid  track 
of  lightning  serves  but  to  show,  in  a  midnight  storm, 
the  avvf  ut  height  and  blackness  of  overhanging  clouds 
full  of  threat  and  terror. 

By  a  month's  end  the  blow  came.  As  I  said,  Cap 
tain  Banks,  son  of  a  near  neighbor  of  ours,  had  been 
telegraphed  as  "  killed  on  the  field  "  by  the  same  mes 
sage  that  declared  Joe  "  missing."  Fortunately  his 
mother,  who  was  a  widow,  had  left  town  for  a  day  or 
two,  and  did  not  get  the  message  till  another  followed 
close  upon  it  to  contradict  the  first.  He  had  not  been 
killed,  but  so  fearfully  wounded,  that,  seeing  his  life 
less  face  and  streaming  blood,  in  the  panic  of  defeat 
he  had  been  left  by  his  men  where  he  lay,  with  his 
rebel  opponent  dead  beside  him,  and  the  cold  corpse- 
face  against  his  was  his  first  sensation  when  he  re 
covered  from  his  swoon,  somewhere  in  the  dead  of 
night.  Happily  for  him  he  was  found  early  in  the 
morning  alive,  but  too  weak  to  speak.  They  took  him 
to  a  hospital,  where  he  was  recognized,  and  did  what 
ever  they  could  for  him  ;  but  fever  set  in,  and  when  he 
was  raving  and  apparently  dying  they  sent  for  his 
mother.  Under  her  care  he  began  at  length  to  recover, 
and  six  weeks  after  the  battle,  having  regained  his 
memory  and  strength  enough  to  talk,  he  asked  her  to 
write  and  tell  Uncle  Harding  that  he  saw  Joe  shot  in 
the  front  rank,  just  before  he  himself  fell.  Not  onhr 
that  he  saw  him  shot,  but  saw  him  reel  to  the  ground 
just  as  a  squadron  of  rebel  cavalry  charged  and  swept 
over  him  ;  so  there  could  be  uo  doubt  of  his  fate. 

Now,  indeed,  it  was  all  over,  —  life  and  love  and  hope, 
—  over  forever  !  Like  the  mad  whirl  of  chaos  heaving 


280  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

before  God  clave  it  with  his  divine  order,  all  my  soul 
whirled  and  staggered.  I  could  not  bear  it ;  I  could 
not !  Like  a  blind  man  fighting  with  a  mortal  enemy 
I  fought  with  Fate,  for  I  could  not  call  it  Providence 
then.  I  could  not  endure  ;  duty  was  a  blank  negation 
to  me.  If  I  could  have  sunk  on  the  floor  and  stayed 
there,  unmoving  and  desperate  till  death  released  me, 
I  would  have  done  so  ;  but  instincts  and  habits  tor 
mented  me  forever  back  into  life.  Out  of  that  desolate 
region  to  which  I  had  fled,  that  arid  desert  on  whose 
sands  I  fell,  mad  and  blind,  I  was  perpetually  recalled 
b}T  little  daily  needs,  by  the  sting  of  hunger  and  the  dry 
lips  of  thirst ;  by  the  demands  upon  my  care  and  for 
bearance  that  others,  perhaps  suffering  as  much  as  I, 
though  I  would  not  believe  it,  daily  made  upon  me.  I 
have  thought  since  what  a  mere}'  it  was  that  He  who 
made  us,  foreknowing  the  anguish  and  the  lessons  of 
life,  put  our  souls  into  the  conservating  power  of  bodies. 
With  no  lesser  wants,  no  failing  of  the  flesh  to  distract 
the  spirit  from  its  awful  pangs,  how  mortal  would  those 
pangs  be !  How  beyond  endurance,  how  lurid  with  the 
horrors  of  incredible,  unimaginable  essence  and  space  ! 
No  ;  thank  God  that  we  are  lower  than  the  angels  ;  for 
we  sin  and  suffer  as  no  angel  could  and  live. 

Mr.  Harding  was  utterly  broken  down.  He  sat,  with 
his  head  upon  his  hands,  in  the  chimney-corner,  hour 
after  hour ;  nothing  moved  him.  The  farm-work  he 
left  entirely  to  his  hired  man,  —  a  trustworthy  person 
enough,  but  wanting  in  judgment  and  self-i'eliance. 
Another  of  the  continual  pin-pricks  that  daily  roused 
me  for  a  moment  was  his  incessant  demand  for  advice 
and  direction.  But  at  length  Joe's  last  words  to  me 
recurred  to  my  mind  with  strange  force.  What  was  I 


MY  THANKSGIVING.  281 

doing  for  him,  for  his?  I  saw  suddenly  .what  selfish 
sorrow  mine  had  been  ;  how  everything  I  ought  to  do 
had  gone  undone,  as,  driven  by  the  restless  fury  of  my 
grief,  I  had  spent  those  bright  autumn  days  wandering 
over  hill  and  field,  through  lonely  woods  and  across 
wild  ravines,  where  I  startled  the  partridge  and  drove 
the  rabbit  from  his  lair ;  as  I  tore  through  bush  and 
brier,  regardless  of  all  but  the  fierce  impulse  of  motion, 
the  necessity  of  some  unreasoning  activity  ;  only  com 
ing  home  at  the  habitual  hours  of  meals  and  rest,  leav 
ing  those  two  other  lonely  souls  to  fight  their  trouble 
as  they  best  might.  I  was  ashamed  now.  I  am  ashamed 
still  to  reflect  how  little  healing  or  constraining  influence 
my  religion — such  as  it  was  —  had  upon  me.  I  had 
not  yet  been  long  enough  under  its  influence  to  have 
acquired  the  habit  of  faith  and  submission  ;  and  under 
this  deadly  blow  I  knew  nothing,  felt  nothing  Christian 
or  acquiescent,  except  the  ever-present  conviction  that 
even  in  this  whirling  storm  God  was  somewhere, — not 
with  me,  nor  for  me ;  but  still  living,  and  unchanged, 
and  just,  though  all  his  world  slipped  away  from  under 
my  feet  like  the  sliding  earth  of  a  nightmare  dream. 
I  did  not  believe  he  was  other  than  good,  but  I  struck 
up  against  Heaven  with  my  bleeding  hands,  and  asked, 
with  horrors  of  reproach  and  unbelief,  "  Why  hastthou 
done  this?"  nor  did  Heaven  reply  ! 

Just  as  I  have  seen  a  mother  with  a  wayward  child, 
in  its  first  passion  of  temper  and  grief,  neither  punish 
nor  argue  with  it,  but  only  divert  its  thoughts  with 
some  new  story  or  external  object,  and  then,  when 
the  sobs  ceased,  and  the  eyes  were  clear,  and  calmness 
had  smoothed  its  fair  little  face  into  natural  lines, 
quietty  reprove,  remonstrate,  or  even  punish  ;  so,  as 


282  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

I  have  since  seen,  did  a  diviner  love  than  any  mother's 
guide  me,  even  by  means  of  the  very  passionate  human 
love  that  made  me  rebel,  into  a  calmer  sphere.  Did  he 
punish  thereafter,  or  break  my  heart  again  with  love 
instead  of  wrath? 

I  ceased  after  this  to  isolate  myself,  and  resumed 
as  best  I  could  my  neglected  work ;  but  something  was 
necessary  to  rouse  Mr.  Harding:  what  could  I  do? 
As  I  was  at  work  one  day  in  the  shed,  Lemuel,  the 
hired  man,  came  in  over  the  sill,  and,  leaning  his  back 
against  the  door,  began  one  of  his  usual  appeals  :  — 

"  I  declare  for't,  Ann,  I  don't  know  what  I  be  agoin' 
to  do  with  the  corn-stalks.  Can't  you  jest  step  around 
and  give  me  an  idee  ?  " 

"  I'll  ask  cousin,"  said  I.  Lem.  stared,  but  kept  his 
position,  and  began  to  tie  a  snapper  which  he  produced 
from  his  pocket  to  the  end  of  the  long  whip  he  held  in 
his  hand.  I  was  glad  he  stayed  behind.  So  I  went  into 
the  great  kitchen,  where  a  fire  of  good  hickory  sticks 
sparkled  and  flamed  on  the  hearth,  for  it  was  a  chill 
November  day.  Granny  sat  in  her  own  place,  Mr. 
Harding  on  the  other  side,  his  head  held  in  both  his 
hands,  the  gray  light  from  the  window  striking  across 
its  silver  mass  of  tangled  curls,  and  the  red  firelight 
flickering  on  the  great,  rough  hands  that  concealed 
both  face  and  forehead.  I  went  up  to  him  and  stooped 
down  beside  his  chair. 

"  Father,"  said  I. 

He  started  as  if  a  shot  pierced  him ;  his  hands 
dropped,  and  his  dim,  bloodshot  eyes  looked  up  with 
wild  inquiry.  I  put  one  hand  on  his  knee  and  laid  my 
head  on  it ;  that  was  an  old  childish  trick  of  Joe's  I 
had  often  heard  of,  as  being  the  only  caress  his  father 


MY  THANKSGIVING.  283 

ever  endured  from  either  of  his  children.  He  was 
neither  a  gentle  nor  a  demonstrative  man. 

"Father,"  said  I  again,  "Lemuel  wants  to  know 
where  he  shall  put  the  corn-stalks." 

Mr.  Harding  did  not  speak  at  once.  He  gave  a  low 
groan,  like  a  sigh ;  then  —  "Lord,  forgive  me!  I  am 
worse'n  a  dumb  ox.  You  come  with  me,  my  child." 

He  got  up  from  his  chair  and  shook  himself,  like  a 
person  bent  on  throwing  off  sleep,  reached  his  old  hat 
from  the  nail,  and  my  shawl  and  hood,  which  hung 
beside  it.  As  we  went  out  of  the  door  granny  said 
audibly,  "  A  Father  to  the  fatherless,  and  the  widow's 
God."  He  held  my  hand  with  a  tighter  grasp  as  the 
words  met  his  ear,  and  held  it  still  while  we  went  the 
rounds  of  the  barn,  and  he  gave  his  directions  to 
Lem.  as  clear  and  well-judged  as  ever,  every  now  and 
then  turning  to  me  for  an  opinion.  I  knew  afterward 
that  Joe  had  said  to  his  father  nearly  what  he  had  said 
to  me,  and  asked  him,  moreover,  to  care  for  and 
comfort  me,  if  care  and  comfort  should  ever  be  needed 
as  the}'  were  now.  From  this  day  he  always  called 
me  "  My  child,"  and  I  always  said  "  Father  "  to  him. 

So  we  settled  down  into  the  dull,  gray  calm  of  life 
again ;  very  silent,  very  quiet,  we  all  were.  Granny 
now  and  then  volunteered  a  proverb  or  a  text,  as 
strangely  fit  to  the  mood,  rather  than  any  occasion, 
as  her  utterances  usually  were.  I  remember  once 
when  Mr.  Harding  had  gone  to  the  village,  and  I  sat 
by  his  empty  chair  sewing,  I  unconsciously  drew  a  long, 
sobbing  sigh.  Granny  took  out  her  needle  from  the 
sheath,  and  laid  her  stocking  down,  saying,  as  she  did 
so  in  a  dreamy  way,  "  Yet  cloth  he  devise  means  that 
his  banished  be  not  expelled  from  him."  What  did 


284  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

she  menn?  The  words  fell  softly  on  my  tried  soul,  yet 
tliere  was  neither  special  promise  nor  hope  in  them  for 
my  peculiar  want ;  yet  they  sung  in  my  thoughts  long 
after,  as  if  persisting  on  some  tender  errand,  mys 
terious  still  to  me. 

Soon  it  was  time  to  make  Thanksgiving  prepara 
tions.  Last  year  how  different  had  this  all  been ! 
What  dreadful  changes  had  passed  over  us  since ! 
Cousin  Martha  and  Joe  both  gone, — what  had  we  to 
be  thankful  for?  I  had  paused  before  going  down 
stairs  one  morning,  when  these  bitter  thoughts  had 
roused  me  long  before  light,  to  look  out  at  the  east 
from  my  window.  A  low  range  of  hills  barricaded  the 
valley  some  two  or  three  miles  from  our  house ;  and 
now,  lying  level  on  their  tops,  were  long  bars  of 
amber,  flushing  at  the  edges  with  red,  that  told  of  a 
sunrise  far  away,  but  sure  in  coming,  while  through 
the  gray  sky  above  that  pallid  blue  streak  on  the 
horizon  a  dying  aurora  pulsated  in  flashes  of  faint 
light,  that  fled  and  throbbed  out  again,  and  fled  once 
more,  and  quivered  anew  with  mystic  splendor  that 
thrilled  me  to  see.  Strange  and  fair  it  was,  that  cold, 
bright  meeting  of  dawn  and  the  northern  night-light 
ning  ;  and  strangely  portentous,  too,  it  seemed  to  me. 
Was  that  a  "sign  in  the  sky?" — were  these  fatal  wars 
foreboding  the  world's  great  peace?  —  was  it  good  or 
evil  that  danced  and  flickered  in  those  ice-glittering 
flashes  above? 

Thanksgiving  day  came  at  last.  My  sole  pleasure 
in  its  preparations  had  been  in  carrying  out  my  resolve 
that  no  poor  soul  I  knew  of,  within  our  township, 
should  go  without  a  good  dinner  to-day.  Somebody 
should  be  thankful  if  I  was  not.  So  I  had  sent  Lemuel 


MY  THANKSGIVING.  285 

round  with  a  big  basket  of  pies,  and  chickens,  and 
tongues,  and  other  necessities  of  Thanksgiving,  the  day 
before  ;  and  now,  having  laid  out  my  dinner  on  the  side- 
table  in  the  summer  parlor,  as  far  as  its  cold  viands  were 
concerned,  and  leaving  the  girl  to  look  after  granny, 
who  seemed  feebler  than  usual  of  late,  and  giving  her 
strong  charges  about  the  turkey,  and  the  potatoes,  and 
the  turnips,  that  already  were  in  their  respective 
corners  hissing,  and  bubbling,  and  sending  savory 
odors  up  the  chimney,  I  dressed  myself  in  my  best, 
and  set  off  for  church  with  "  father." 

Our  old  minister  had  gone  away  to  keep  Thanks 
giving  with  his  son  in  Boston,  and  to-day  a  stranger 
was  to  preach  for  us.  Our  village  choir  was  a  good 
one  for  the  country,  with  several  fine,  though  untrained, 
voices,  and  one  remarkable  soprano,  that  seemed  in 
its  purity  and  accuracy  to  defy  the  need  of  instruction  ; 
and  as  it  rose  alone  in  the  anthem  before  service,  and 
wandered  along  the  exquisite  music  of  those  words, 
"  Rest  in  the  Lord ;  oh,  rest  in  the  Lord  !  Wait  pa 
tiently  for  him,  and  he  shall  give  thee  thy  heart's 
desire,"  more  than  one  dull  eye  glittered  with  tears  that 
did  not  fall.  But  on  my  heart  tears  lay  like  lead,  nor 
sprung  to  cool  my  hot  eyes.  Ah  !  what  patient  waiting 
could  ever  bring  to  me  my  heart's  desire  ?  Not  God 
himself,  I  said,  could  restore  this  ruined  past ! 

I  looked  across  the  aisle  and  saw  Mrs.  Banks,  the 
captain's  mother ;  her  handkerchief  was  at  her  face, 
but  she  wept  for  joy,  —  her  son  was  home  again,  weak 
and  helpless,  but  at  home !  It  was  Thanksgiving  to 
her  ;  but  for  me  there  was  no  restoration.  Sitting  there 
quiet  in  the  corner  of  the  pew,  unable  to  exert  myself 
to  dispel  the  bitter  thoughts  crowding  upon  me,  I  be- 


286  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

came  their  prey.  Hymn  and  prayer  passed  by  unheeded. 
I  neither  heard  the  text  nor  the  sermon  till,  when  it  was 
about  half  over,  suddenly  these  words  roused  me  :  — 

"  But  there  is  still  heaven  to  be  thankful  for.  What 
ever  sorrows  bereave  us  here,  whatever  fatal  mistakes 
darken  our  lives,  whatever  irredeemable  losses  befall 
us,  we  may  yet  rest  in  the  Lord,  and  wait  patiently  for 
him  in  the  little  life  that  remains  ;  for  bc3'ond  this 
world's  gain  or  loss,  high  in  the  serene  air  of  heaven, 
when  existence  ceases  to  be  a  lesson  and  becomes  vivid 
life,  there  and  only  there  shall  he  give  us  our  heart's 
desire  in  its  immortal  fulness.  Here  knowledge  is  de 
filed,  love  is  imperfect,  purity  the  result  of  fiery  trial, 
wealth  rusted  with  covetousness  ;  but  in  heaven  is  the 
very  native  country  of  pure  knowledge,  perfect  love, 
utter  sinlessness,  and  riches  that  neither  moth  nor  rust 
corrupt,  that  bless  and  curse  not." 

He  went  on  to  enumerate  what  we  had  to  be  thank 
ful  for,  even  under  the  reign  of  anarchy  and  war  ;  but 
on  these  few  sentences  that  I  have  written  I  dwelt  till 
peace  brooded  over  my  tried  heart.  Yes  !  there  was 
heaven  to  come  ;  and  an  object  still  left  to  life,  —  to 
grow  into  fitness  for  that  rest  and  its  reuniting. 

After  church  we  went  home  without  staying  to  speak 
to  the  neighbors,  who  seemed  to  understand  and  respect 
our  silence.  They  all  went  home  with  groups  of  chil 
dren  and  grandchildren  about  them  ;  we  were  alone. 

Soon  as  possible  I  had  dinner  on  the  table.  I  wanted 
to  have  it  through  ;  I  wanted  the  day  done.  Anniver 
saries  are  like  old  wounds  that  reopen  and  bleed  every 
year.  I  hurried  to  have  the  observances  of  this  one 
over  with.  So  we  sat  down  to  dinner  —  three,  where 
last  year  had  been  five  !  Cousin  Martha's  fair,  wan 


MY  THANKSGIVING.  287 

face,  with  its  scarlet  flush  on  cheek  and  lip,  smiling 
beside  granny ;  Joe's  manly,  sunburnt  visage  and 
handsome  figure  on  the  other. 

We  sat  down  in  perfect  silence.  Mr.  Harding  carved, 
and  we  all  went  through  at  least  the  form  of  eating. 
Still  in  that  dead  silence,  when  just  as  I  was  about  to 
lay  down  my  knife  and  fork,  a  wagon  came  rapidly 
down  the  road  and  stopped  at  our  door.  "  Lemuel 
come  back  from  the  post-office,"  said  father. 

But  was  that  halting  step  in  the  entry  Lemuel's  ? 

The  door  flung  open,  and  there  stood  Joe. 

Sorrow  is  easy  to  describe,  but  what  words  can  tell 
the  incredible  thrill  of  such  joy  as  this  ?  For  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  lost  all  consciousness  for  a  blind 
blank  moment.  I  did  not  faint,  —  for  I  never  faint,  — • 
but  I  knew  nothing  from  the  moment  I  saw  the  door 
open  on  him  till  I  found  both  his  arms  round  me  and 
my  head  lying  against  him  as  I  still  sat  in  my  chair. 
It's  no  use  trying  to  tell  it.  A  few,  blessed  as  I,  have 
snatched  this  blossom  out  of  blood-red  battle-fields  ; 
they  will  know. 

It  seems  Joe  had  fallen,  as  Captain  Banks  said,  from 
two  musket-bullets  that  pierced  at  once  the  upper  part 
of  his  left  arm ;  fortunately  for  him  they  were  not 
Minie"-bullets,  but  the  old  kind.  Then  the  cavalry 
charge  swept  over  him,  and  a  horse  stepping  on  his 
right  leg  broke  it  badly  ;  he  escaped  marvellously  with 
his  life,  and  fortunately  no  artery  was  ruptured ;  but 
he  lay  on  the  field  three  days  and  three  nights,  was 
then  picked  up  by  a  farmer,  —  a  Virginian  and  a  Union 
man,  — who,  passing  by  the  field,  heard  him  groan  ;  he 
picked  him  up,  took  him  home,  drove  off  to  the  nearest 


288  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

doctor  to  be  found,  and  bad  his  leg  set,  and  bis  wounds 
dressed  ;  but  Joe  was  too  weak  to  talk  or  think,  and 
before  he  had  strength  to  do  either  fever  set  in,  with 
delirium,  and  in  consequence  they  neither  knew  who  he 
was  or  where  he  came  from.  But  the  woman  of  the 
house  nursed  him  like  a  mother.  She  had  two  sons 
fighting  in  the  West  with  Rosecrans,  and  she  said  it 
was  for  thinking  of  them  that  she  never  let  a  soldier 
pass  her  door  hungry  or  thirsty,  and  took  such  care  of 
Joe.  If  gratitude  and  blessing  and  prayers  can  keep 
that  woman's  sons  alive  and  well,  they  will  come  back 
to  her  scathless  ! 

So  for  two  months  he  lay  there  between  life  and 
death.  Then  he  wrote,  but  the  letter  was  lost,  or  de 
layed,  or  missent ;  and  through  his  slow  convalescence 
he  expected  to  see  his  father  or  me  daily,  and  so  wrote 
no  more  till,  as  soon  as  he  could  sit  up  long  enough,  he 
got  to  Hagerstown,  and  from  there  home.  True,  his 
leg  had  been  badly  set,  and  he  never  would  walk  with 
out  limping,  and  his  arm  still  lay  in  a  sling ;  but  it 
was  Joe  !  No  matter  how  battered  or  broken,  no  matter 
how  wan  and  thin,  he  was  back  again  ! 

The  next  week  I  laid  aside  my  heavy  crape  and 
bombazine  for  a  white  dress,  and  we  were  married. 
Still  bent  and  grave,  but  with  a  bright  smile,  father 
put  both  his  arms  round  me,  and  kissed  me  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life.  "  My  dear  child !"  was  all  he 
said. 

And  the  week  after  I  put  on  those  mourning  gar 
ments  again,  for  granny  was  gone.  The  only  words 
she  had  spoken  since  Joe  came  home,  except  in  answer 
to  some  question,  were  :  "  He  that  saveth  his  life  shall 
lose  it;  but  he  that  loseth  his  life  shall  find  it."  She 


MY  THANKSGIVING.  289 

sank  into  a  sort  of  lethargy,  and  fell  asleep  like  a  con 
tented  child. 

It  is  winter  now.  Heavy  snow  falls  as  I  write,  drift 
ing  from  the  north-east,  and  settling,  shroud-like,  over 
the  earth  ;  but  in  the  house,  at  home,  there  is  no  climate 
but  summer. 

God  has  given  me  my  heart's  desire. 


290  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 


HOW  SHE  FOUND  OUT. 


"  BUT  I  don't  love  you  !  "  stiid  Laura,  in  a  lazy  sort 
of  way,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  no  particular  conse 
quence. 

"  Yes,  you  do,"  answered  Frank,  lying  at  her  feet 
in  the  short,  sweet  grass,  and  looking  up  in  her  face. 
A  very  pleasant  face  to  look  into,  no  doubt :  piquant, 
sensible,  humorous,  with  great  capacities  of  sweetness 
not  yet  called  out  by  life  ;  for  Laura's  life  had  been  as 
tranquil  as  that  of  the  clover-blossoms  he  was  punch 
ing  with  her  parasol,  and  her  dark  eyes  had  never  yet 
been  dimmed  or  softened  with  sorrow.  They  were  all 
sparkle.  Yet  what  girl  of  twenty  would  sit  quietly 
and  hear  a  man  tell  her  she  loved  him  in  that  calm 
way,  even  if  she  had  known  him  always,  and  was  his 
step-cousin? 

Not  Laura  Gay  !  A  quick  flush  of  angry  color  rose 
to  the  dark  hair  that  lay  in  soft,  fluffy  clouds  almost 
down  to  her  eyes,  and  hid  the  low,  wide  forehead.  She 
jumped  up  from  the  rock  where  she  was  sitting. 

"  You  are  impertinent.     I  shall  go  home  !  " 

"O  Laura!  don't  be  cruel.  Stay  a  moment  — 
give  me  a  chance.  I  do  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am ; " 
and  Frank  Dyer  put  himself  into  such  an  absurd  posture 
on  his  knees,  with  his  hands  dropped  at  the  wrists,  for 
all  the  world  like  Laura's  own  little  spaniel  which  he 


HOW  SHE  FOUND   OUT.  291 

had  taught  to  beg,  that  she  had  to  laugh,  and  after 
that  there  was  no  more  to  be  said ;  so  she  sat  down 
again  and  waited  for  the  sunset  which  they  had  come 
to  see. 

Norfolk  is  a  little  village  in  western  Connecticut: 
sleepy  as  Sleepy  Hollow,  except  that  it  is  partly  on  a 
hill,  and  that  the  north  winds  blow  there  straight  from 
the  Arctic  regions,  without  let  or  hindrance.  In  winter 
Norfolk  is  a  howling  wilderness  of  snow  or  stones, 
where  the  people  endure  hardness,  and  keep  alive  by 
strenuous  exertions.  In  summer  it  blooms  with  the 
reluctant  foliage  and  flowering  of  New  England.  The 
barren  hills  put  forth  mullein  and  hardhack,  with  scant 
bloom  of  diluted  yellow  and  unwilling  pinkness.  The 
ready  ferns  illustrate  the  wood-edges  with  their  delicate 
grace  and  faint  odor.  The  gnarled  apple-trees  writhe 
into  rosy  buds,  and  the  knotted,  straggling  kalmia  en 
tertains  angels  unaware  in  its  clouds  of  dawn -tinted  or 
pallid  flowers,  that  come  and  go  almost  too  quickly  to 
be  discovered. 

People  go  to  Norfolk  in  summer  to  keep  cool  —  and 
they  do  it.  A  few  people  live  and  die  there.  One  of 
these  few  was  Laura  Gay's  father.  Mr.  Gay  was  born 
in  Norfolk,  and,  having  made  money  enough  to  content 
him,  elsewhere,  returned  to  his  birthplace  and  settled 
down  in  the  old  homestead.  It  can  be  inferred  what 
sort  of  a  man  he  was  from  the  two  facts,  that  he  was 
content  with  fifty  thousand  dollars,  and  that  he  was 
willing  to  settle  down  in  Norfolk  after  a  long  absence, 
money-making  in  New  York.  But  he  was  very  fond  of 
his  children,  and  city  life  had  proved  fatal  to  all  of 
them  but  one ;  after  that  nothing  would  have  per 
suaded  him  to  leave  the  country.  He  took  kindly  to 


2!»2  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

his  life  there, —  pottered  about  his  garden  in  summer, 
hoed  his  corn,  brushed  his  peas,  made  wonderful  scare 
crows,  and  exterminated  the  worms  from  his  currant- 
bushes.  In  winter  he  had  full  occupation  in  keeping 
his  house  warm.  Seal-skin  bags  and  blubber  would 
have  been  a  vast  comfort  to  him,  but  civilization  de 
mands  coal  fires  and  roast  beef. 

Laura  was  never  sent  to  school.  A  governess  of 
some  sense,  and  a  good  deal  of  sweetness,  brought  her 
up.  Her  mother  was  a  fat,  fair,  incapable  female, 
who  liked  her  dinner  and  her  novel,  and  who  was 
abundantly  careless  of  what  other  people  said, —  a 
happy  gift  in  the  country.  It  was  Miss  Greene,  the 
governess,  who  was  Laura's  real  mother ;  who  directed 
her  nature  in  its  bright,  simple,  fearless  fashion  ;  who 
bought  her  clothes  and  saw  that  they  were  not  outr6 
enough  to  be  remarkable  ;  who  bought,  also,  the  books 
she  read,  and  permitted  novels  of  a  certain  class 
among  them. 

It  was  she  who  introduced  Laura  to  the  few  mild 
dissipations  of  society  she  had  ever  enjoyed  ;  for  Mrs. 
Gay  said  she  was  too  feeble  to  visit,  being  in  fact  too 
fat.  Mr.  Gay  had  never  entertained  as  possible  the 
idea  that  Laura  would  or  could  many.  She  was  his 
little  girl  still.  She  always  would  be.  He  felt  a 
curious  surprise  when  she  began  to  go  to  the  church 
sewing-society,  and  said,  "  Sh,  sh,  dear!  children 
shouldn't  talk  about  such  things,"  when  she  piquantly 
retailed  at  breakfast  all  the  gossip  with  which  the  un 
bleached  cotton  and  cheap  calico  garments  had  been 
seasoned  in  their  fashioning  the  night  before.  Ho 
even  doubted  in  his  secret  heart  if  she  could  read  well 
enough  when  she  was  asked  to  join  a  reading  circle, 


HOW  SHE  FOUND   OUT.  293 

which  was  to  Norfolk  what  a  ball  is  to  New  York.  Bat 
he  did  not  express  the  doubt,  lest  he  should  grieve  her. 

So  she  grew  up  as  natural,  as  honest,  as  delightful 
as  any  wild  blossom  in  the  fields  about  her ;  and  it  was 
no  wonder  that  Frank  Dyer,  whose  father  had  married 
Mrs.  Gay's  sister,  when  his  boy  was  some  seven  years 
old,  should  find  out,  after  knowing  Laura  as  long  as  he 
could  remember,  and  much  longer  than  she  could,  that 
she  was  the  very  sweetest  girl  in  all  the  world,  and  the 
dearest  to  him. 

But  Frank  manfully  held  his  tongue  till  Laura  was 
twenty.  He  did  not  want  her  to  accept  him  before  she 
knew  her  own  heart  fully.  She  had  no  lack  of  ad 
mirers,  such  as  they  were.  The  village  post-office  had 
a  succession  of  clerks,  who  fell  in  love  with  her  as  fast 
as  they  came  into  position.  At  least  three  young 
farmers  spent  Sunday  in  worshipping  a  human  idol 
with  shining  eyes  and  fluffy  hair,  and  she  counted 
among  her  scalps  all  those  youths  who  administered 
dry  goods  to  the  Norfolk  population,  one  after  an 
other,  and  forsook  their  counter  because  Laura  had 
no  smiles  to  measure  off  for  them.  One  theological 
student,  also,  who  came  to  try  his  new-fledged  powers 
in  the  old  white  church,  bowed  and  fell  at  her  feet, 
and  then  went  his  way  sorrowing.  Frank  might  have 
despaired  of  such  a  Diana  had  he  been  a  man  given  to 
despair ;  but  he  knew,  without  conceit,  that  he  was  a 
better  man  than  these,  and  he  saw  with  inward  delight 
that  Laura  depended  on  him  more  and  more  every 
year. 

So  he  spent  his  summers  there  with  his  step-mother, 
who  preferred  her  sister's  society  and  the  cool  idlesse  of 
the  deep  country  to  Newport  or  Saratoga  ;  and  when  his 


294  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

vacation  was  over  and  he  plunged  into  business  again, 
he  kept  Laura  always  reminded  of  him  by  occasional 
gay  notes ;  sometimes  a  piece  of  music,  a  box  of 
Maillard's  delicate  confections,  books  just  published, 
birthday  bouquets,  and  all  the  small  munitions  of  war 
wherewith  the  illuminati  besiege  fortresses  in  these 
days.  But  in  vain  had  he  waited  for  Laura  to  spend  a 
winter  in  New  York,  or  even  Hartford,  or  to  be  allowed 
a  season  at  some  gay  watering-place,  where  she  might 
see  some  other  world  than  that  of  Norfolk.  Her 
father  would  not  hear  of  her  going  to  a  city  ;  his  early 
experience  filled  him  with  nervous  horror  of  the  idea. 
Was  one  child  spared  him  out  of  five,  —  well,  straight 
and  strong,  with  bloom  on  her  face,  light  in  her  eye, 
laughter  on  her  lips,  —  and  should  he  be  insane  enough 
to  risk  his  treasure  where  all  the  others  had  been 
wrecked  and  lost?  Never!  No  persuasion  could  induce 
him  to  trust  her  to  Mrs.  Dyer's  care  even  for  a  month. 

As  to  travelling,  that,  too,  was  not  feasible.  Mamma 
was  altogether  too  supine.  Railroads  tortured  her  both 
by  their  punctuality  and  their  speed ;  hotels  were  an 
astonishment  and  a  hissing  on  account  of  their  stairs 
and  their  chairs.  She  did  not  see  why  people  wanted 
to  travel  when  they  could  stay  at  home.  So  she  stayed 
there  !  She  could  not  be  left  alone,  so  they  all  stayed 
with  her  ;  and,  therefore,  it  came  to  pass  that  Laura  at 
twenty  had  seen  no  better  man  than  Frank  Dyer,  and 
he  took  heart  of  grace  that  night  they  strolled  off  to  see 
the  sunset,  and  asked  her  to  marry  him,  receiving  the 
answer  and  making  the  response  we  have  already  re 
vealed. 

It  is  true  they  sat  down  quietly  to  wait  for  the  sink 
ing  sun,  but  it  was  an  outward  quiet  only.  With  all 


HOW  SHE  FOUND   OUT.  295 

his  audacity,  Frank  Dyer's  heart  was  apprehensive 
enough,  and  Laura  was  disturbed  deeply.  Change  of 
any  sort  had  never  coine  near  her ;  life  had  never  been 
a  conscious  thing  ;  she  had  grown  up  in  careless  com 
fort,  happy  in  her  daily  ways,  as  a  child  is  happy  un 
awares  ;  and  here  came  the  first  stone  to  vex  the 
placid  stream's  career,  that  had  hitherto  known  only  a 
bright,  shallow  ripple  in  its  grassy  bed.  But,  like  a 
child,  she  put  the  trouble  aside  for  the  moment  and 
gazed  before  her.  They  sat  on  the  precipitous  edge  of 
a  little  hill  that  holds  on  its  summit  the  church,  the 
green,  and  a  few  pleasant  houses  ;  the  last  step  of  a 
terrace  rather,  for  beyond  green  and  church  the  land 
rises  again,  and  still  again ;  but  at  their  feet,  and 
stretching  out  before  them,  lay  the  West  Norfolk  and 
Canaan  valley,  —  a  green  ravine  straight  on  to  the  sun 
set,  its  lofty  sides  clothed  to  their  summits  with  tender 
foliage  of  birch,  beech,  and  maple,  shaded  with  masses 
of  hemlock  and  dark  spear-heads  of  pine.  A  brook 
babbled  down  through  the  verdant  cleft  in  the  hills ; 
you  could  hear  its  distant  fall  over  more  than  one  dam, 
but  its  light  and  shining  were  hidden  by  thick  leaves, 
and  by  the  flood  of  golden,  dusty,  radiant  mist  that 
filled  and  overflowed  all  the  valley  from  the  fast-sinking 
sun.  Now  that  day-star  fell  behind  a  dark  blue  slate 
cloud,  and  gilt  its  edge  with  a  vivid  fringe  of  fire. 
Silence  brooded  over  all  the  woods,  broken  only  now 
and  then  by  the  thrilling,  vibrant,  silver-smitten  note 
of  the  wood-thrush,  who  sings  at  noon  and  night  as  if 
he  disdained  the  song  of  other  birds,  and  would  have 
all  ether  to  himself  for  the  clear  spirit  of  his  fairy 
clarion  to  fill.  Then  the  sun  emerged  ;  the  livid  cloud 
was  flecked  with  cold  crimson  ;  pearl  and  golden  scales 


296  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

of  light  dappled  all  the  southern  sky  in  streaming  fans 
of  splendor.  The  east  was  filled  with  warm  rose  tints 
flushing  and  fading,  and  deeper  still  the  crimson  grew, 
and  softer  the  purple  of  the  west.  A  parting  cloud  of 
fire  and  gloom  revealed  the  high  evening  star  ;  the  sun 
was  gone. 

Laura  drew  a  long  breath.  She  had  lost  something, 
and  tried  to  recover  herself  and  remember.  It  came 
back  to  her,  with  a  disagreeable  thrill,  that  Frank 
had  asked  her  to  marry  him.  She  pulled  up  her  light 
shawl  hastily,  and  stooped  to  pick  a  cluster  of  straw 
berry-blossoms  to  hide  the  hot  blush  that  covered  her 
face  ;  but  Frank  Dyer  saw  it.  He  was  wise,  however, 
and  said  no  more  just  then.  They  went  home  through 
the  dew,  the  June  grass  brushing  them  with  fragrant 
spires,  and  the  cool  evening  air  breathing  promise  of  a 
storm  to-morrow,  as  well  as  the  heavy  gathering  clouds 
all  about  the  horizon. 

"  It  will  rain  to-morrow,"  said  Laura,  for  want  of 
some  better  thing  to  say ;  and  here  they  were  at  the 
gate. 

"  Good-by,"  was  all  that  Frank  answered.  He  did 
not  offer  to  come  in.  She  did  not  ask  him.  For  the 
first  time  in  her  life  Laura  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  her 
cousin.  It  did  not  strike  her  as  significant  that  it  was 
the  first  time.  She  was  too  young,  too  simple,  to 
know  why.  She  went  into  the  house  and  sat  down  by 
the  window.  A  tall  white  rose  pushed  its  fragrant 
milky  buds  against  the  sash  ;  the  half  unfolded  roses 
showed  their  soft  saffron  depths,  and  stood  pearled 
with  dew,  and  breathing  tranquil  odors  close  to  the 
sill.  Laura  loved  roses,  but  she  never  looked  at  these. 
Her  face  was  troubled  and  thoughtful,  and  nobody 


HOW  SHE  FOUND   OUT.  297 

disturbed  her  ;  for  her  father  was  hunting  cut-worms  at 
the  roots  of  his  cabbage  plants,  her  mother  deep  in  a 
new  novel,  and  Miss  Greene  had  gone  up  the  hill  to 
prayer-meeting.  Not  that  she  would  have  told  her 
thoughts  or  her  trouble  to  either  of  the  three  ;  but  the 
silence  forced  them  upon  her  own  attention,  and  she  sat 
there  a  long  time  wondering  if  she  really  did  care  any 
thing  about  Frank  Dyer  except  as  a  cousin,  and  getting 
more  and  more  indignant  that  he  should  have  asserted  it 
as  a  fact  instead  of  asking  it  as  a  favor.  For,  as  I  said, 
Miss  Greene  had  let  Laura  read  novels.  It  was  in 
fact  making  a  virtue  of  necessity,  for  she  knew  what 
feminine  nature  is  in  the  best  of  us ;  that  from  the 
days  of  Paradise  down  it  has  been  forbidden  fruit  that 
tempted  us  all ;  and  by  permitting  Laura  to  read 
novels  she  achieved  for  herself  the  power  of  selecting 
them. 

But  novels  are  not  nature,  save  and  except  a  noted 
few ;  and  it  was  not  in  Laura's  experience  of  gen 
tlemanly  love-making  that  the  lady  should  be  so 
curtly  taken  possession  of  as  she  had  been,  without 
so  much  as  "  by  your  leave."  It  is  true  her  lovers  — 
for  a  few  of  the  enamored  rustics  had  really  committed 
themselves  —  had  made  their  proposals  with  much 
stammering  and  dire  confusion  of  face,  but  with 
proper  humility.  She  had  expected  of  a  lover  on  her 
own  plane  the  elegant  diction,  the  well-turned  phrases, 
the  rapture  and  devotion,  of  a  well-behaved  man  in 
a  book ;  and  Frank  had  first  asked  her  in  the  simplest 
Saxon  to  marry  him,  and  then,  when  she  said  she  did 
not  love  him,  assured  her  she  did.  Was  this  to  be 
borne  ? 

So  she  meditate  1  long  on  the  fact  that  she  did  not  love 


298  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

him  ;  they  were  always  quarrelling ;  not  a  week  passed 
but  their  "  little  tempers  "  rose  and  flew  to  arms,  for 
at  least  five  minutes  ;  then  they  were  not  in  the  least 
alike,  —  at  least  everybody  said  so.  Frank  was  not 
afraid  of  anything ;  he  was  dreadfully  rash  ;  he  had 
brown  hair  and  blue-gray  eyes  ;  and  so  forth  and  so 
on,  till  she  had  catalogued  the  poor  young  fellow 
remorselessly,  —  the  very  police  would  have  known  him. 
Then  femininity  relented,  of  course,  and  the  other  side 
of  the  shield  was  interviewed  ;  but  good  qualities  are 
so  tedious.  Laura  yawned,  lifted  her  head  from  her 
hand,  got  up  and  lit  her  candle,  and  ignominiously  went 
to  bed,  thinking  all  the  way  upstairs  of  the  hero  she 
always  had  meant  to  marry :  tall,  pale,  with  deep, 
glittering  eyes  and  raven  hair ;  a  man  dedicated  to 
consumption  and  the  ministry  ;  a  man  to  be  adored, 
waited  on,  worshipped.  Poor,  dear 'little  Laura!  — 
she  was  so  young  !  But  she  went  to  sleep  very  soon, 
and  slept  better  than  that  audacious  Frank,  who 
was  half  scared  at  his  first  daring  venture,  and  lay 
wondering  how  it  would  result  —  in  what  fashion  lie 
should  follow  it  up.  Night  brought  him  no  counsel ; 
he  made  up  his  mind  only  to  wait,  having  dim  sus 
picion  that  these  matters,  out  of  novels,  find  their  own 
way  to  a  fit  ending,  much  like  the  drop  of  water  that 
works  a  patient  way  through  sand,  and  stones,  and 
tenacious  clay,  at  last  to  the  root  which  awaits  it  in 
thirsty  longing.  Even  after  a  week's  waiting,  after 
walks,  drives,  hours  of  croquet,  and  two  picnics,  —  op 
portunity-makers  for  the  aid  of  all  deliberating  lovers,  — 
all  he  contrived  to  say  was  one  brief  sentence,  that 
escaped  him  almost  before  he  knew  it,  as  the  two  sat 
together  one  Sunday  night  on  Mr.  Gay's  door-step,  the 


HOW  SHE  FOUND   OUT.  299 

rose-freighted  air  breathing  softest  balm  about  them, 
and  the  young  moon,  slender  as  a  dream,  floating  down 
the  twilight  sky. 

"  Laura,  have  you  found  out  yet  whether  you  love 
me?" 

"  No  !  "  snapped  out  this  thorny  }~oung  person,  with 
a  sudden  red  in  her  face  that  even  the  twilight  could 
not  hide. 

She  did  not  say  "  I  do  not,"  thought  Frank  to  him 
self. 

"  AYou't  you  try  to  find  out?  "  he  replied,  with  a  cer 
tain  strenuous  meekness  quite  as  masterful  as  a  demand. 

"I  don't  kpow,"  she  answered;  but  the  tone  was 
far  more  subdued ;  the  doubt  was  half  assurance. 

"  Chateau  qui  parle,  femme  quiecoute,  tons  deuxvont 
se  rendre,"  thought  Frank,  blessing  the  consolatory  old 
proverb,  as  Laura  abruptly  rose  and  left  him  to  wel 
come  Miss  Greene,  just  home  from  another  prayer-meet 
ing  ;  for  Miss  Greene  was  a  good  woman, —  conveniently 
good,  thought  Frank  Dyer. 

Matters  went  on  very  tranquilly  after  this.  One 
little  adventure  occurred  to  Laura  that  was  destined  to 
be  cut  deep  in  her  memory  by  after  events.  She  went 
over  to  "Winsted  one  day  to  the  dress-maker,  and  Mrs. 
Dyer  went  with  her.  At  the  last  moment  Frank  dis 
covered  important  business  would  take  him  to  the 
borough  too ;  and,  although  both  ladies  assured  him  he 
would  be  dreadfully  in  the  way,  he  was  yet  allowed  to 
go  on  condition  that  he  would  not  expect  their  society, 
but  only  meet  them  at  the  last  train. 

Now  Mrs.  Dyer,  though  not  equal  to  Mrs.  Gay  in 
size,  was  a  fairly  stout  woman,  and  of  all  things  de 
spised  a  hill ;  so,  after  Laura's  dresses  were  talked  over, 


300  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

fitted,  tried  on  ;  her  Sunday  bonnet  of  last  year  a  bit 
changed  and  sobered  down  for  this  year's  daily  wear, 
and  a  basket  of  peaches  bought,  Mrs.  Dyer  went  to 
the  hotel  to  take  the  carriage  to  the  West-street 
station.  But  Laura  at  the  last  moment  remembered 
she  must  have  some  candy,  and  really  it  was  absurd  to 
ride  up  a  little  hill  like  that ;  she  could  buy  her  sweets 
and  run  up  the  road  very  nearly  as  fast  as  Aunt  Bell 
could  be  driven  up.  But  she  was  long  buying  her 
candy ;  there  was  a  delay  about  change,  and  when 
Laura  at  last  crossed  the  Lake-street  bridge  she  heard 
a  whistle  at  the  lower  station,  and,  supposing  the  train 
to  be  coming,  hurried  up  the  steps  to  the  track,  in 
tending  to  cross  the  railroad  bridge,  which  there  runs 
high  above  the  road,  and  affords  a  quick  way  to  reach 
the  cars.  Luckily  for  her  the  whistle  she  heard  was 
that  of  the  train  just  in  from  Hartford ;  but  she  did 
not  know  that,  and  hurried  over  the  plank  that  is  laid 
across  the  open  floor  of  the  bridge  for  pedestrians. 
Her  aunt  and  Frank  stood  on  the  platform  watching 
her,  but  neither  felt  anxious,  for  Laura  was  sure-footed, 
and  prided  herself  on  her  safe  passage  of  many  a  dan 
gerous  place  in  her  walks.  This  time,  however,  be 
tween  hurry  and  carelessness,  one  foot  slipped  just  as 
she  got  to  the  last  tie  of  the  track,  and  went  down  into 
space  as  far  as  it  could.  She  threw  her  bundles  away 
instinctively,  and  grasped  the  rail  with  both  hands  ; 
for  an  instant  she  recalled  that  coming  whistle,  and 
shivered  ;  but  the  thought  gave  her  desperate  strength, 
and  before  Frank  could  reach  her  she  had  pulled  her 
self  forward  on  to  the  solid  abutment,  and  was  safe, 
though  trembling  with  excitement  and  somewhat 
scraped  and  bruised. 


HOW   SHE  FOUND    OUT.  301 

Frank's  face  was  white  with  terror,  and  he  could  not 
speak  ;  he  just  gathered  up  her  bundles,  drew  her  hand 
into  his  arm,  and  hastened  to  the  platform,  where  Aunt 
Bell  stood  wringing  her  hands,  almost  in  hysterics. 

After  this  good  woman  was  quieted  and  Laura  in  the 
cars  on  her  way  home  beside  the  still  silent  Frank,  she 
remembered  his  white  face,  his  look  of  pain,  and  won 
dered  what  made  him  care  so  much  about  her,  and  if 
she  ever  could  or  would  care  about  him  enough  to  marry 
him,  half  smiling,  half  sighing  over  the  idea.  So  that 
summer  passed,  and  the  Dyers  with  it,  though  the}*  only 
went  to  New  York.  Autumn  again  painted  all  the 
world  about  Laura  with  its  wondrous  pigments.  Sober 
Norfolk  became  transfigured  ;  respectable  old  Haystack 
flaunted  in  kingly  robes  of  crimson  and  gold  ;  the  great 
green  valley  turned  to  a  ravine  of  fire  and  blood, 
darkened  with  the  constant  evergreen  sentinels  that 
withstood  all  temptations  of  gay  attire  ;  the  very  ferns 
turned  delicate  bronze  or  faint  yellow ;  and  weeping 
blackberry-vines  trailed  garnet  and  saffron  tracer}'  over 
the  scant  grasses  of  the  rocky  hill-sides.  Laura  went 
nutting  with  more  than  one  party  ;  she  gathered  a  bushel 
at  least  of  gay  leaves,  and  forgot  to  dry  them  ;  she  took 
long,  lonely  walks  and  read  volumes  of  nice,  harmless 
poetry  ;  her  eyes  grew  dreamy,  her  manner  abstracted  ; 
life  out-doors  seemed  to  have  lost  its  flavor  ;  she  missed 
Frank  everywhere  ;  she  began  to  hate  the  youths  of 
Norfolk,  who  fluttered  about  her  like  uninteresting 
moths,  only  to  burn  their  fingers.  She  wished  it  were 
summer,  and,  behold,  here  Avas  winter ;  dreadful,  more 
dreadful  than  ever,  for  it  rioted  among  the  deep  figures 
below  zero,  —  made  the  house  dismal  with  cold  o'  morn 
ings,  and  desperate  with  frozen  water  everywhere  at 


302  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

night.  There  were  clays  when  the  post-office  was  not 
accessible  ;  when  the  railroad  itself  was  over-drifted,  and 
no  New  York  paper  even  lifted  the  weight  of  their  sol 
itude  with  the  assurance  of  a  pleasanter  world  beyond, 
—  a  long  and  dreary  winter,  in  which  almost  the  only 
gleam  of  pleasure  was  the  weekly  pamphlet  from  Frank, 
or  the  frequent  letter  from  either  his  mother  or  him 
self.  But,  after  all,  if  one  can  endure,  spring  surely 
comes  at  last ;  and  when  May  began  to  make  the  old 
hills  green  in  patches,  and  dot  the  sward  with  shy,  del 
icate  blooms,  Aunt  Bell  wrote  that  she  had  been  so 
worn  out  with  one  influenza  after  another,  a  touch  of 
pneumonia,  and  a  long  siege  of  rheumatism,  that  the 
doctor  had  ordered  her  to  leave  New  York  at  once,  and 
she  had  resolved  to  take  board  at  a  hotel  in  Winsted 
till  July,  when,  of  course,  she  should  come  to  Norfolk. 
Mrs.  Gay  fussed  a  good  deal  in  her  harmless  way  about 
this  new  caprice  of  Mrs.  Dyer's  ;  but  she  knew  long 
ago  it  was  of  no  use  trying  to  move  her  sister's  fancy, 
however  capricious  it  might  be.  Laura  was  very  glad  ; 
if  Aunt  Bell  was  so  near  she  could  run  down  and  see 
her  any  day.  Nothing  was  said  about  Frank, — he  never 
could  leave  New  York  so  early  ;  but  by  and  by,  when 
June  began,  and  Aunt  Bell  had  coaxed  Laura  into 
coming  to  stay  a  week  with  her,  much  to  the  (appar 
ent)  astonishment  of  both  ladies,  Frank  appeared 
Thursday  night,  to  stay  till  the  next  Monday. 

How  unfortunate  !  Laura  had  promised  to  go  to  Hart 
ford  with  Miss  Greene  on  Saturday.  But  then  she  was 
coming  back  at  night ;  and,  since  she  was  to  leave  Miss 
Greene  to  spend  Sunday  with  some  friends,  Frank 
promised  to  run  down  to  Pine  Meadow  on  the  four- 
o'clock  train  and  meet  her  there  ;  he  might  be  very 


now  SHE  FOUND  OUT.  303 

useful,  Aunt  Bell  said,  to  carry  her  bundles  out  of  the 
car.  Laura  thought  so  herself.  So  at  four  o'clock  the 
two  simultaneously  left  Hartford  and  Winsted,  flying 
toward  each  other  on  the  wings  of  steam,  though  in  a 
mighty  prosaic  fashion :  Laura  hot,  tired,  and  cross  ; 
for  Aunt  Bell  had  made  her  wear  a  thick  black  silk 
dress  and  a  black  hat  and  feathers, —  becoming  enough, 
but  fit  for  the  cold  Winsted  morning,  not  for  the  hot 
Hartford  noon  ;  and  then  shopping  is  not  always  con 
ducive  to  peace  of  mind :  when  you  cannot  possibly 
match  your  summer  silk  with  trimming,  or  get  the  right 
shade  of  gloves,  or  suit  yourself  with  a  summer  bonnet ; 
when  you  are  blinded  with  tints  of  blue,  gray,  and 
lavender ;  when  your  dresses  demand  white  and  black, 
with  just  a  bit  of  rose-color  in  your  bonnet,  and  you  fall 
really  in  love  with  a  wreath  of  dark  and  golden  pansies  ; 
or  you  want  that  exquisite  French  cambric,  with  a 
border  of  daisies  to  its  blue  ground,  and  have  spent  all 
your  money  but  two  dollars,  you  have  a  right  to  be 
cross. 

So  Laura  was  cross,  as,  with  half  a  dollar  left  in  her 
porte-monnaie  after  buying  her  ticket  and  her  inevi 
table  candy,  and  six  bundles  in  her  arms  and  hands, 
she  seated  herself  in  the  train  and  moved  slowly  out  of 
the  station. 

In  the  meantime  Frank  bethought  himself  of  the  gar 
nets  that  are  to  be  found  here  and  there  in  the  rocks 
of  Satan's  Kingdom ;  and  having  a  fitful  fancy  for 
geology,  and  remembering  that  he  had  an  hour  to  wait 
for  Laura,  borrowed  a  hammer,  and  as  the  train  crept 
at  a  snail's  pace  through  this  evil-named  gorge 
dropped  off  the  platform  of  the  car,  and  proceeded  to 
amuse  himself.  The  day  grew  hotter  toward  night,  as 


304  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

some  days  in  the  early  season  do.  Geologizing  is  not 
done  in  the  shade,  and  Frank  got  very  warm  indeed ; 
Laura  meanwhile  getting  cool,  good-tempered,  and 
rested,  in  the  breezy  cars,  and  thinking  of  Pine  Meadow 
station  more  than  she  was  aware.  Suddenly  the  train 
stopped,  and  she  was  surprised  to  find  the  way  so  far 
passed  over  that  they  were  waiting  at  the  side  track 
west  of  Stratton  Brook  for  the  four  o'clock  train  from 
Winsted ;  fifteen  minutes  dragged  on  like  an  hour. 
By  and  by  the  steam-whistle  shrieked  from  a  distance, 
the  train  rattled  on  to  the  siding,  and  with  a  vexed  yell 
the  detained  engine  was  off  again.  As  they  swept, 
half  an  hour  after,  through  the  Kingdom  gorge,  Laura, 
who  sat  looking  out  of  the  window,  saw  a  man  try  to 
get  on  the  platform  of  the  car,  and  fail.  She  thought 
it  might  be  the  engineer  of  the  construction  train  at 
first,  and  then,  quick  as  light,  it  flashed  on  her  brain 
that  it  was  Frunk,  who  expected  the  train  to  slow  as 
usual,  and  could  not  reach  it.  She  flew  to  the  rear 
door  of  the  car, —  by  this  time  just  on  the  west  end  of 
the  bridge, —  and  there  he  was,  running  across  the  open 
floor  on  the  single  plank  over  that  black,  swift  river. 
Laura  turned  to  the  conductor  with  almost  a  cry  :  — • 

"  Please,  won't  you  stop  the  train?  Mr.  Dyer  is  left 
here,  and  it  is  Saturday  night." 

"  I  can't.  Miss  Gay."  The  conductor  knew  both 
Laura  and  Frank  from  their  frequent  transits  over  the 
road.  "I  wish  I  could;  but  we  are  fifteen  minutes 
late." 

She  turned  to  look.  Frank  was  gone.  Laura  felt 
her  way  back  to  her  seat ;  she  remembered  her  own 
fall  on  the  bridge  at  Winsted  ;  and  there  came  back  to 
her  a  hoirid  story,  in  the  paper  only  37esterday,  of  an 


HOW  SHE  FOUND    OUT.  305 

old  lady  whose  daughter  had  come  to  bid  her  good-b}r 
at  a  train,  and  standing  on  the  track  to  wave  her  hand 
kerchief,  the  mother  saw,  as  she  rolled  off  in  the  car, 
another  train  run  over  her  child,  and  kill  her  before 
her  eyes.  Laura  shuddered ;  but,  having  a  certain 
amount  of  sense  for  a  girl,  she  sat  down  and  considered 
what  to  do.  At  the  Pine  Meadow  station  there  was  no 
telegraph  office.  She  could  not  stop  there  ;  she  could 
not  go  home  in  this  horrible  anxiety  ;  she  must  know 
the  worst  —  if  anything  is  worse  than  doubt.  She 
went  to  the  conductor  again  and  asked  him  to  tell  the 
station-master  at  the  Meadow  that  if  Mr.  Dyer  came 
there  he  might  tell  him  that  a  wagon  would  be  sent 
down  for  him  from  "Winsted  at  once.  Now,  Laura  did 
this  partly  not  to  let  the  conductor  know  she  was 
frightened,  —  for  she  alread}',  with  the  logic  and  justice 
of  most  young  ladies,  regarded  this  poor  man  as  a  cal 
lous  and  cruel  brute  not  to  have  stopped  for  Frank ; 
and  partly  to  give  Frank  himself  information  that 
would  set  him  at  rest,  if  b}7  any  possible  chance  he  had 
escaped  the  ghastly  river,  with  its  rocks  and  pools  ;  for 
Laura  had  enough  poise  left  to  remember  that  such  a 
thing  might  be.  But  little  did  this  young  person  know 
the  ways  of  men  if  she  expected  the  conductor  to  give 
such  a  message,  or  the  station-master  to  deliver  it. 
They  knew  very  well  that  any  average  man  could  take 
care  of  himself  without  a  girl's  intervention.  Laura 
hates  them  both  to  this  day  ;  but  I  do  not  know  that  it 
troubles  either  of  them. 

Then  she  resolved  to  leave  the  train  at  New  Hart 
ford,  for  she  knew  certain  "VViusted  people  whom  she 
knew  well  would  get  into  the  cars  there,  and  she  could 
Bend  after  a  carriage  to  come  down  for  her  from  the 


306  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

hotel  and  take  her  home.      So,  gathering  all  her  bun 
dles,  she  hurried  to  the  door,  and,  as    soon  as  they 
stopped,  seized  upon  the  first  gentleman  she  saw  entering 
and  charged  him  to  tell  the  driver  of  the  Blank  House 
carriage  to  send  a  man  clown  to  New  Hartford  for  her  as 
soon  as  possible, —  "For  my  cousin,  who  was  to  meet  me 
here,  has  been  left  at  Pine  Meadow,  and  I  must  wait." 
Diplomatic  little  Laura !     She  did  not  see  the  furtive 
smile  that  curled  the  corners  of  Mr.  Blinn's  mouth  as 
she  so  carefully  avoided  personal  pronouns.     She  did 
not  know  that  he  came  down  on  the  train  with  Frank, 
and  knew  perfectly  well  who  lie  was  waiting  for ;  much 
less  did  she  know  the  conclusions  he  drew  at  once  from 
her  white,  anxious  face  and  wistful  eyes.    But  he  prom 
ised   to  give  her  message.     Then  where  to  leave  her 
bundles?      The  station-master  assured  her  he  should 
immediately  shut  up  for  the  night,  as  there  was  no  later 
train,  but  kindly  advised  her  to  go  to  the  tavern.     She 
would    have    asked   where    she    could    find    a   wagon 
and  driver ;  but,  alas  !  there  was  only  half  a  dollar  in 
that  depleted  pocket-book.     So  she  found  her  way  to 
the  tavern,  interviewed  the  landlord,  and  left  her  par 
cels  in  his  keeping,  telling  him  she  expected  to  be  sent 
for,  and  if  the  man  from  the  Blank  House,  Winsted,  came 
there  before  she  got  back,  he  must  wait  for  her.  Laura's 
parcels  were  valuable,  — among  them  her  pretty  French 
Cashmere  shawl,  rolled  up  in  its  case,  and  the  results 
of  her  clay's  shopping.     But  do  you  think  she  cared, 
when  Frank  was  perhaps  lying  dead  in  that  black  river, 
what  became  of  things  ?     So  she  gathered  up  the  long 
train  of  her  heavy  dress,  which  had  been  torn  from  its 
loopings  before  she  left  Hartford,  and  prepared  to  walk 
down  to  Pine  Meadow. 


now  SHE  FOUND  OUT.  307 

How  hot  and  dusty  the  road  was !  How  long  as  a 
bad  dream  its  dull  track !  One  wagon  after  another 
passed  her,  but  Laura  had  no  courage  to  ask  fora  ride. 
Two  ladies  in  a  ponj'-carriage  drove  down,  and  one 
turned  and  looked  at  her.  Laura  felt  uneasily  how 
peculiar  her  appearance  must  be  then  and  there,  but 
she  kept  on  till  the  Canal  railroad  station  was  in  sight. 
Then  she  paused  to  consider.  If  Frank  had  not  been 
drowned,  of  course  he  would  walk  up  to  the  village  ;  if 
he  got  her  message  he  would  stop  at  the  station  ;  if 
not,  he  would  probably  take  the  track  as  shortest ;  at 
any  rate  the  road  ran  parallel  to  the  railroad,  and  the 
Connecticut  Western  track  went  for  a  mile  side  by  side 
with  that  of  the  Canal.  She  would  walk  down  the 
rails,  and  look  across  at  the  highway ;  then  she  should 
be  sure  not  to  miss  him  ;  so  holding. up  her  gown,  that 
kept  increasing  still  in  weight,  she  stumbled  on  across 
the  ties,  her  head  turned  toward  the  highway,  till  the 
two  paths  diverged  so  far  that  in  the  deepening  twilight 
she  could  scarce  discern  figures,  and  in  despair  she 
took  a  little  cart-path  back  to  the  road,  and  found  her 
self  close  to  the  Pine  Meadow  station.  It  was  shut 
tight ;  nobody  to  be  found.  She  looked  along  the  lonely 
track  toward  the  Kingdom  bridge,  but  no  figure  ap 
peared  ;  she  heard  the  rushing  river  and  the  whispering 
trees  sighing  in  the  soft,  damp  air  of  the  valley ;  her 
heart  sank  very  low.  She  could  not  walk  to  the  bridge, 
and  then  back  to  New  Hartford ;  her  strength  was  all 
but  gone  now.  Sadly  she  turned  back  and  hunted  up 
the  station-master,  only  to  find  that  he  had  shut  up  as 
soon  as  the  train  passed,  because  he  "allers  did." 
"  Hadn't  nobody  ben  there  !"  Then  there  lay  all  that 
walk  to  be  retraced ;  and  by  this  time  hope  had  almost 


308  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

left  her ;  the  tears  came  hot  and  fast  to  her  eyes,  and 
dropped  unheeded.  She  went  over,  with  the  fertile 
imagination  of  a  woman,  not  only  all  the  probabilities, 
but  all  the  possibilities,  of  the  case.  How  should  she  tell 
Aunt  Bell ;  how  glad  she  was  that  she  had  not  confided 
her  terrors  to  Mr.  Blinn,  for  Aunt  Bell  might  have  had 
a  real  fit  and  died,  to  hear  such  a  rumor,  and  not  be 
able  to  search  it  out,  and  Uncle  Dyer  not  there  either ! 
Poor  Frank,  — poor  Laura  rather,  she  thought,  —  what 
should  she  do  without  him  ?  If  she  asked  herself  any 
further  questions  they  are  unknown  to  this  deponent. 

But  the  hot  night  grew  hotter  to  her  all  the  time  ; 
her  feet  ached  as  well  as  her  heart ;  it  is  well  that  we 
have  bodies  to  deaden  the  aches  of  our  souls  some 
times.  Just  then  the  pony  phaeton  passed  her  again, 
this  time  with  but.  one  lady.  She  drove  very  slowly, 
and  Laura,  with  her  heart  in  her  mouth,  took  courage, 
and  said  timidly,  though  clearly  :  — 

"  Are  you  going  to  New  Hartford,  madam?  " 

The  lady  stopped  and  assented. 

"  Can  I  ride  up  with  you,  please?   I  am  so  tired." 

"  Certainly." 

And  in  another  moment  Laura  was  safe  beside  this 
friend  in  need,  inexpressibly  relieved  as  to  her  weari 
ness,  and  very  glad  to  have  her  companion  ask,  "  Are 
you  not  Miss  Gay,  of  Norfolk?"  And  then  Laura  told 
her  story,  too  glad  to  be  known  and  befriended  to  re 
member  or  care  for  any  possible  inferences. 

Blessed  are  the  sympathizers  !  —  they  give  the  most 
precious  gifts  of  earth.  Man  does  not  live  by  bread 
alone,  even  in  this  mortal  life ;  we  exist  on  other  food 
that  that  which  is  physical.  Had  Mrs.  Parker  been 
sarcastic,  and  sniffed  at  Laura  as  a  foolish  girl,  scared 


HOW  SHE  FOUND    OUT.  309 

at  nothing,  and  assured  her  a  man  was  always  able  to 
look  out  for  himself,  or  teased  her  for  her  sentimen 
tality  and  devotion,  Laura  might  have  added  a  third  to 
her  list  of  hates ;  but  Mrs.  Parker  was  a  lady,  and 
knew  better.  Life  had  not  made  her  bitter  any  more 
than  nature.  She  soothed  poor  Laura  with  the  kind 
liest  words  ;  assured  her  she  should  feel  just  so  in  the 
same  circumstances,  and  proposed  at  once  that  they 
should  drive  right  back  to  the  tavern,  and  see  if  Mr. 
Dyer  had  by  any  chance  been  there ;  but  he  had  not. 
The  landlord  had  seen  somebody  who  looked  like  a 
stranger  ride  by ;  but  he  was  with  another  man,  and 
went  up  to  the  depot.  So  to  the  depot  they  went,  to 
find  that  all  closely  shut ;  then  Mrs.  Parker  suggested 
that  he  might  have  come  up  to  the  telegraph  office  and 
sent  a  message  for  her  to  Winsted,  thinking  she  would 
be  alarmed  ;  but  when  they  got  there  the  operator  had 
gone  to  tea.  She  must  be  looked  for,  and  when  they 
found  her  there  was  no  record  of  any  message  for  the 
last  hour.  Mrs.  Parker,  with  unweary  kindness,  then 
insisted  Laura  should  go  home  with  her,  bundles  and 
all,  to  wait  for  the  "team"  from  Winsted,  which  the 
landlord  of  the  tavern  promised  to  send  to  Mrs. 
Parker's  when  it  came  ;  and  the  homesick,  heartsick 
girl  was  ouly  too  glad  to  go. 

The  cool,  quiet  house,  the  friendliness,  the  rest, 
seemed  to  Laura's  undisciplined  soul  only  aggrava 
tions  ;  she  wanted  to  do  something ;  she  could  not 
swallow  the  nice  supper  set  before  her,  —  she  could  not 
even  drink  the  tea.  She  paced  up  and  down  the  piazza 
in  restless  misery,  till  at  last  the  idea  occurred  to  her 
to  telegraph  to  a  friend  of  Frank's,  who  was  boarding 
at  the  hotel  in  Winsted  with  his  wife,  and  find  out  if 


310  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

her  cousin  had  been  heard  from  there.     So  she  wrote 
a  hasty  message  :  — 

Has  Frank  come  home?    I  am  left  in  New  Hartford. 

LAURA'  GAT. 

Further  particulars  she  spared,  thinking  of  that  half 
dollar ;  and  when  Mrs.  Parker's  little  boy  had  gone 
down  to  the  office  she  began  to  count  the  minutes  for 
his  return.  It  was  seven  o'clock  now ;  by  eight  at 
most  she  ought  to  see  the  wagon  from  Winsted,  and 
before  that  she  should  hear  from  Mr.  White.  An 
hour !  The  next  fifteen  minutes  were  like  a  day  to 
her ;  and  at  every  roll  of  wheels  over  the  bridge  below 
her  heart  jumped.  But  nobody  came  !  B}r  and  by  the 
boy  returned  ;  but  there  was  no  answer  to  her  message. 
At  eight — oh,  how  long  first!  —  Mr.  Parker  came 
home,  and,  proving  to  be  an  old  acquaintance  of 
Laura's,  was  as  kind  as  his  wife,,  He  went  at  once 
down  to  the  livery-stable,  which  they  had  not  thought 
of,  to  see  if  any  one  had  been  there  to  hire  a  horse,  as 
it  was  the  only  place  where  one  could  be  had,  and 
surely  Mr.  Dyer  would  not  think  of  walking  to  Win 
sted.  Laura  was  by  this  time  nearly  frantic.  Nobody 
came  for  her ;  no  answer  arrived  to  her  telegram ; 
nothing  could  be  heard  of  Frank.  The  mystery  and 
silence  of  death  seemed  to  close  about  her  like  an 
awful  nightmare.  She  beat  against  these  bars  of 
circumstance  like  a  newly-prisoned  bird  ;  she  begged 
Mr.  Parker  to  order  a  carriage  for  her  at  ten  o'clock, 
for  if  nothing  happened  by  that  time  she  must  and 
would  go  back  to  Winsted ;  she  must  reach  her  aunt ; 
she  must  know  something  ! 


HOW  SHE  FOUND   OUT.  311 

They  all  pitied  her;  they  were  all  good  to  her. 
Perhaps  her  fervent  gratitude  to  them  stands  balanced 
in  her  record  against  her  hatred  of  the  conductor  and 
station-master.  I  think  the  gratitude  outweighs  the 
hate  if  that  be  so,  it  is  so  much  the  rarer  emotion. 
But  even  the  kindness  and  pity  could  but  pacify  the 
external  expression  of  Laura's  wild  and  impatient 
distress.  The  minutes  passed  in  slow  torture ;  her 
nerves  were  racked  with  doubt  and  dread  ;  her  incisive 
and  impatient  nature  could  know  no  more  unendurable 
pangs  than  those  of  suspense.  Mr.  Parker  did  not 
come  home ;  he  had  then  no  good  news  to  bring. 
Night  darkened  over  the  hills  about  her ;  mists  curled 
up  from  the  long  pond  above  the  dam ;  the  river  mur 
mured  below  ;  the  tranquil  stars  came  out  softly  into 
the  misty  heaven.  Laura  looked  at  this  still  world 
with  dumb  rage  and  reproach.  Frank  dead  in  that 
whispering  river,  and  all  the  world  so  silent,  cairn,  and 
sweet!  It  was  horrible.  Where  should  she  go  ?  What 
should  »she  do?  Her  head  throbbed  with  pain  and 
excitement.  She  walked  up  and  down  in  the  night- 
air  till  she  was  shivering  with  the  chill,  though  her 
head  and  her  eyes  were  still  aflame.  Kind  Mrs. 
Parker,  with  pity  in  every  tone,  tried  to  make  her  sit 
down  and  rest ;  she  did  not  try  to  comfort  her  any 
more.  Laura  noticed  that.  Nine  o'clock ;  must  she 
give  up  all  hope?  Just  then  hoofs  rattled  on  the 
bridge,  clattered  up  the  hill.  Mr.  Parker's  cheery 
voice  cried  out  that  there  was  news,  and  in  a  moment 
more  Laura  tore  open  a  telegram  from  Winsted :  — 

I  am  coming  for  you.     Wait  where  you  are. 

FRANK  DTEB. 


312  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

Laura  gave  one  dry  sob  and  sat  down  in  a  chair 
somebody  gave  her.  Her  strength  was  all  gone. 
There  are  human  words  enough  for  pain  :  how  few 
there  are  for  jo}' !  —  nowhere  near  enough  to  describe 
the  blessed  relief  and  rapture  that  made  our  little  girl 
so  weak,  so  content.  Now  she  could  remember  her 
politeness,  and  try  to  express  her  vivid  gratitude  to 
these  kindest  of  all  people  who  had  helped  her  in  time 
of  need.  But  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  words  failed  even 
there ;  she  had  to  cease  herself,  and  hear  how  Mr. 
Parker  had  heard  nothing  at  the  stable,  and,  being  then 
a  little  alarmed  himself,  had  kept  the  telegraph  office 
open  as  long  as  he  could,  hoping  to  hear  from 
Winsted. 

Let  us  take  the  time  while  Laura  is  waiting  in  hope  — 
far  different  dispensation  from  the  waiting  in  fear —  to 
explain  how  this  missing  young  gentleman  had  spent 
his  time  for  the  three  hours  during  which  his  fate  had 
been  so  doubtful  to  his  dismayed  "  cousin."  When 
Frank  found  himself,  at  five  o'clock,  in  the  gorge,  tired 
and  heated  with  climbing,  his  pockets  full  of  specimens, 
and  his  hands  bruised  against  the  rocks,  he  resolved  to 
wait  there  for  the  train,  which  ordinarily  slows  quite 
enough  for  any  one  to  reach  the  car-steps  easily,  rather 
than  to  walk  in  a  hurry  up  to  Pine  Meadow.  When 
the  cars  passed  him  so  fast  he  still  thought  they  would 
stop  for  him  on  the  other  side  of  the  bridge,  as  the 
conductor  had  seen  him,  he  supposed,  from  the  baggage 
car ;  so  he  ran  over  the  single  plank,  never  thinking  it 
to  be  dangei-ous,  and  coming  to  no  harm,  except, 
indeed,  that  he  perceived  the  train  did  not  slacken 
speed,  and  that  further  effort  was  useless ;  so  he 
turned  at  once  into  the  highway,  and  prepared  to  walk 


HOW  SHE  FOUND    OUT.  313 

to  New  Hartford.  Just  then  it  must  have  been  that 
Laura  turned  to  look  again  after  speaking  to  the  con 
ductor  ;  for  the  road  turns  at  right  angles  with  the 
bridge,  while  the  train  curves  but  little  there ;  and, 
standing  back  in  the  car,  she  could  not  see  the  road, 
but  only  the  bridge  and  the  track,  and  Frank  not  on 
either ! 

He  walked  but  a  few  rods  before  meeting  an  old 
farmer,  whom  he  persuaded  to  put  one  of  his  horses 
into  a  wagon  and  carry  him  to  Winsted ;  and  so  it 
happened  that  while  Laura,  hot  and  anxious,  was 
trudging  down  the  Canal  railroad  track,  Frank  was 
quietly  driving  up  the  highway,  and  she  had  failed  to 
recognize  him  so  far  off,  having  moreover  made  up  her 
mind  that  he  would  walk.  They  had  driven  up  to  the 
depot  at  New  Hartford,  for  the  farmer  had  some 
errand  there,  and  would  have  been  seen  again,  and 
probably  recognized  in  passing  the  hotel,  had  they  not, 
to  save  time,  taken  a  little  by-road  that  cut  off  a 
corner  and  put  them  sooner  on  the  turnpike.  Frank 
thought  of  sending  a  telegram,  but  supposed  the  con 
ductor  had  seen  him,  and  would  tell  Laura  he  was  left, 
as  she  would  ask  probably,  on  his  not  appearing  at  the 
Meadow  station,  if  he  had  come  down  in  the  four- 
o'clock  train.  When  he  got  home  and  did  not  find 
Laura,  his  mother  having  gone  to  bed  with  a  sick  head 
ache,  he  could  get  no  information  from  her.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  White  had  gone  to  ride,  and  the  telegram  from 
Laura  lay  safely  on  the  floor  of  their  room,  shoved  in 
through  the  crack  of  the  door !  The  landlord  asserted 
that  Laura  did  not  come  home  in  the  carriage,  and 
now  both  driver  and  carriage  were  gone  to  the  Nauga- 
tuck  train.  Frank  naturally  supposed  she  was  left  in 


314  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

Hartford,  and  very  tranquilly  sat  down  and  ate  his 
supper,  and  then  went  up  street  to  hunt  up  Mr.  Blinn 
and  see  if  he  had  seen  her  on  the  train,  as  it  was  just 
possible  she  might  have  heard  from  Miss  Greene  news 
to  take  her  back  to  Norfolk,  though  he  felt  a  certain 
chagrin  that  she  had  not  in  either  case  thought  of  her 
aunt's  natural  anxiety  and  telegraphed  to  her.  Mr. 
Blinn  was  not  in  his  office,  so  Frank  went  on  to  send  a 
telegram  to  Hartford,  and  there  learned  of  Laura's 
message  to  Mr.  White,  sent  his  own  down  to  her,  and 
waited  till  her  answer  came.  Then  he  took  a  convey 
ance  from  the  nearest  stable,  and  drove  back  to  the 
hotel  for  wraps  and  to  interview  the  driver  who  had 
received  Mr.  Blinu's  order  at  the  cars,  and  find  out 
why  it  was  not  executed.  But  that  worthy  was  in  a 
muddled  frame  of  mind,  not  unusual  to  him,  and 
"didn't  remember  nothin'  'beout  it  anyhow."  So, 
with  a  mildly  derogatory  remark,  Frank  went  his 
way  to  New  Hartford,  quite  unconscious  of  Laura's 
anxiety,  and  wondering  not  a  little  how  she  came  to  be 
so  silly  as  to  get  off  the  last  train  at  New  Hartford, 
and  on  Saturday  night  too.  Her  reply  to  his  message 
had  been,  "Will  wait  at  Mr.  E.  B.  Parker's"  ;  so, 
after  an  inquiry  or  two,  he  drove  directly  to  the 
house. 

It  was  dark  by  this  time,  or  Laura,  who  was  at  the 
door  to  meet  him,  might  have  been  a  little  confused  at 
his  look  of  surprise  when  she  threw  herself  into  his 
arms  and  began  to  sob. 

Here  was  an  event,  to  be  sure  !  Laura,  who  never 
had  kissed  him  even  as  a  child,  hanging  on  his  neck  in 
tears,  and  before  utter  strangers.  Mrs.  Parker  came 
to  the  rescue. 


HO  W  SHE  FO UND  OUT.  315 

"  Mr.  Dyer,  I  presume.  Miss  Gay  has  been  dread 
fully  frightened." 

"  Frightened?"  echoed  the  bewildered  man. 

"  O  Frank  !  —  for  three  hours  I  have  not  known  if 
you  were  dead  or  alive.  I  thought  you  were  drowned." 

"  Come,"  said  he,  in  a  curt,  masculine  way,  being  in 
fact  mightily  tickled  with  the  obvious  state  of  affairs  ; 
"•  put  your  things  on,  Laura  ;  we  ought  to  go  directly, 
—  it  is  late ; "  and  while  Laura,  meek  as  any  nun, 
folded  herself  in  the  wraps  he  brought  and  hunted  up 
her  bundles,  Mr.  Dyer  made  his  warm  acknowledgments 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Parker,  and  obtained  some  idea  of 
the  complications  he  had  unwittingly  caused. 

It  was  after  ten  o'clock  when  they  drove  out  of  the 
little  village  ;  the  moon  glittered  just  above  the  crest 
of  an  eastern  hill,  red  and  hot  through  the  purple  haze  ; 
the  soft  and  fragrant  June  night  brooded  like  a  tender 
dream  over  the  woods  and  drew  out  all  their  delicate 
odors  into  the  cool  and  wooing  air ;  no  light  shone 
from  any  window ;  no  voice  of  man  intruded  on  the 
peace ;  the  dropping  brooks  tinkled  from  stone  to 
stone  or  rippled  whisperingly  under  long  grasses  in  the 
meadows ;  a  whip-poor-will's  lonely  cry  accented  the 
silence  and  made  it  felt.  With  broken  speech,  and 
tears  that  could  not  be  restrained,  Laura  told  her 
pitiful  little  tale,  and  Frank  supplied  its  vacancies 
with  his  own.  Laura  ended  with  a  long,  sighing 
breath  and  an  unfinished  sentence :  — 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad"  — 

Frank  did  not  speak  —  he  could  not.  He  grasped 
Laura's  little  hand  in  his  own  very  closely,  but  she  did 
not  reclaim  it.  They  were  both  silent  for  a  while, 
thrilled  with  the  same  emotion  ;  doubtful  if,  after  all, 


316  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

this  darkness,  stillness,  this  silent  passion,  this  sweet 
agony  of  relief  and  rest,  were  not  a  dream  ;  if  it  could 
be  true  ;  if  it  were  vanishing,  —  at  least  this  was  Laura. 

Frank,  perhaps,  was  more  assured,  more  exultant, 
more  courageous  ;  for  it  was  he  who  broke  the  silence. 

"  Laura,  have  you  found  out?"  and  for  answer  the 
lovely  head  dropped  on  his  shoulder,  and  she  nestled 
into  his  arms.  Probably  she  had. 

Laura  always  said  that  Frank  took  a  mean  advan 
tage  of  her,  and  extorted  his  answer  when  she  was  so 
tired'  she  really  didn't  know  whether  she  meant  it ;  but 
as  she  never  said  this  to  any  one  but  him,  and  they 
were  married  the  next  October,  I  don't  know  that  it 
was  of  any  consequence. 


ANN  POTTER'S  LESSON.  317 


ANN  POTTER'S  LESSON. 


MY  sister  Mary  Jane  is  older  than  I,  —  as  much  as 
four  years.  Father  died  when  we  were  both  small,  and 
didn't  leave  us  much  means  beside  the  farm.  Mother 
was  rather  a  weakly  woman ;  she  didn't  feel  as  though 
she  could  farm  it  for  a  livin'.  It's  hard  work  enough 
for  a  man  to  get  clothes  and  victuals  off  a  farm  in  West 
Connecticut ;  it's  up-hill  work  always  ;  and  then  a  man 
can  turn  to,  himself,  to  ploughin'  and  mowin' ;  but  a 
woman  aint  of  no  use,  except  to  tell  folks  what  to  do ; 
and  everybody  knows  it's  no  way  to  have  a  thing  done, 
—  to  send. 

Mother  talked  it  all  over  with  Deacon  Peters,  and 
he  counselled  her  to  sell  off  all  the  farm  but  the  home- 
lot,  which  was  sot  out  for  an  orchard  with  young  apple- 
trees,  and  had  a  garden-spot  to  one  end  of  it,  close  by 
the  house.  Mother  calculated  to  raise  potatoes  and 
beans  and  onions  enough  to  last  us  the  year  round,  and 
to  take  in  sewin',  so's  to  get  what  few  groceries  we  was 
goin'  to  want.  We  kept  Old  Red,  the  best  cow  :  there 
was  pasture  enough  for  her  in  the  orchard,  for  the  trees 
wa'n'tgrowed  to  be  bearin'as  yet,  and  we  lotted  a  good 
deal  on  milk  to  our  house ;  besides,  it  saved  butcher's 
meat. 

Mother  was  a  real  pious  woman,  and  she  was  a  high- 
couraged  woman  too.  Old  Miss  Perrit,  an  old  widder- 


318  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

woman  that  lived  down  by  the  bridge,  come  up  to  see 
her  the  week  after  father  died.  I  remember  all  about 
it,  though  I  wa'ii't  but  ten  years  old ;  for  when  I  see 
Miss  Perrit  comin'  up  the  road,  with  her  slimpsy  old 
veil  hanging  off  from  her  bumbazine  bunnet,  and  her 
doleful  look  (what  Nancy  Perrit  used  to  call  "  mother's 
company-face"),  I  kinder  thought  she  was  comin'  to 
our  house  ;  and  she  was  allers  so  musical  to  me,  I  went 
into  the  back-door,  and  took  up  a  towel  I  was  heinmin', 
and  set  down  in  the  corner,  all  ready  to  let  her  in.  It 
don't  seem  as  if  I  could  'a'  been  real  distressed  about 
father's  dyin'  when  I  could  do  so ;  but  children  is  just 
like  spring  weather, — rainin'  one  hour  and  shiniu'  the 
next,  — and  it's  the  Lord's  great  mercy  they  be  ;  if  they 
begun  to  be  feelin'  so  early  there  wouldn't  be  nothin' 
left  to  grow  up.  So  pretty  quick  Miss  Perrit  knocked, 
and  I  let  her  in.  We  hadn't  got  no  spare  room  in  that 
house  ;  there  was  the  kitchen  in  front,  and  mother's 
bedroom,  and  the  buttery,  and  the  little  back-space 
opened  out  on't  behind.  Mother  was  in  the  bedroom  ; 
so, while  I  called  her,  Miss  Perrit  set  down  in  the  splint 
rockin'-chair,  that  creaked  awfully,  and  went  to  rockin' 
back  and  forth,  and  sighin',  till  mother  come  in. 

"  Good-day,  Miss  Langdon  !  "  says  she,  with  a  kind 
of  a  snuffle,  "  how  dew  you  dew?  I  thought  I'd  come 
and  see  how  you  kep'  up  under  this  here  affliction.  I 
rec'lect  very  well  how  I  felt  when  husband  died.  It's 
a  dreadful  thing  to  be  left  a  widder  in  a  hard  world,  — 
don't  you  find  it  out  b}T  this  ?  " 

I  guess  mother  felt  quite  as  bad  as  ever  Miss  Perrit 
did,  for  everybody  knew  old  Perrit  treated  his  wife 
like  a  dumb  brute  while  he  was  alive,  and  died  drunk  ; 
but  she  didn't  say  nothin'.  I  see  her  give  a  kind 


ANN  POTTER'S  LESSON.  319 

of  a  swaller,  and  then  she  spoke  up  bright  and 
strong :  — 

"I  don't  think  it  is  a  hard  world,  Miss  Perrit.  I 
find  folks  kind  and  helpful,  beyond  what  I'd  any  right 
to  look  for.  I  try  not  to  think  about  my  husband  any 
more  than  I  can  help,  because  I  couldn't  work  if  I  did, 
and  I've  got  to  work.  It's  most  helpful  to  think  the 
Lord  made  special  promises  to  widows,  and  when  I 
remember  him  I  aint  afeard." 

Miss  Perrit  stopped  rockin'  a  minute,  and  then  she 
began  to  creak  the  chair  and  blow  her  nose  again,  and 
she  said  :  — 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  it's  a  great  mercy  to  see  anybody 
rise  above  their  trouble  the  way  you  do ;  but,  law  me  ! 
Miss  Langdon,  you  aint  got  through  the  fust  pair  o' 
bars  on't  yet.  Folks  is  allers  kinder  neighborly  at  the 
fust ;  they  feel  to  help  you  right  off,  every  way  they 
can  ;  but  it  don't  stay  put,  —  they  get  tired  on't ;  they 
blaze  right  up  like  a  white-birch  stick,  an'  then  they  go 
out  all  of  a  heap ;  there's  other  folks  die,  an'  they 
don't  remember  you,  an'  you're  just  as  bad  off  as 
though  you  wa'n't  a  widder." 

Mother  kind  of  smiled,  —  she  couldn't  help  it;  but 
she  spoke  up  again  just  as  steady :  — 

"I  don't  expect  to  depend  on  people,  Miss  Perrit, 
so  long  as  I  have  my  health.  I  aint  above  takin' 
friendly  help  when  I  need  to,  but  I  mean  mostly  to  help 
myself.  I  can  get  work  to  take  in,  and  when  the  girls 
have  got  their  schoolin'  they  will  be  big  enough  to  help 
me.  I  am  not  afraid  but  what  I  shall  live  and  prosper, 
if  I  only  keep  my  health." 

"Hem,  well!"  whined  out  Miss  Perrit.  "I  allers 
thought  you  was  a  pretty  mighty  woman,  Miss  Lang- 


320  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

don,  and  I'm  glad  to  see  you're  so  high-minded ;  but 
you  aint  sure  of  your  health,  never.  I  used  to  be  real 
smart  to  what  I  am  now,  when  Pen-it  was  alive  ;  but  I 
took  on  so  when  he  was  brought  home  friz  to  death 
that  it  sp'iled  my  nerves  ;  and  then  I  had  to  do  so  many 
chores  out  in  the  shed  I  got  cold  an'  had  the  dread- 
fulest  rheumatiz ;  an'  when  I'd  got  past  the  worst 
spell  of  that,  and  was  quite  folksy  again,  I  slipped  down 
on  our  door-step  an'  kinder  wrenched  my  ankle,  an* 
eft  hadn't  'a'  been  for  the  neighbors  I  don't  know  but 
what  Nancy  and  I  should  'a'  starved." 

Mother  did  laugh  this  time.  Miss  Perrit  had  over 
shot  the  mark. 

"  So  the  neighbors  were  helpful,  after  all !  "  said  she. 
"And  if  ever  I  get  sick  I  shall  be  willin'  to  have  help, 
Miss  Perrit.  I'm  sure  I  would  take  what  I  would  give. 
I  think  givin'  works  two  ways.  I  don't  feel  afraid 

yet." 

Miss  Perrit  groaned  a  little,  and  wiped  her  eyes,  and 
got  up  to  go  away.  She  hadn't  never  offered  to  help 
mother ;  and  she  went  off  to  the  sewin'-circle,  and  told 
that  Miss  Langdon  hadn't  got  no  feelings  at  all,  and 
she  b'lieved  she'd  just  as  soon  beg  for  a  livin'  as  not. 
Polly  Mariner,  the  tailoress,  come  and  told  mother  all 
she  said  next  day ;  but  mother  only  smiled,  and  set 
Polly  to  talkin'  about  the  best  way  to  make  over  her 
old  cloak.  When  she  was  gone  I  begun  to  talk  about 
Miss  Perrit,  and  I  was  real  mad ;  but  mother  hushed 
me  right  up. 

"  It  aint  any  matter,  Ann,"  said  she.  "  Her  savin' 
so  don't  make  it  so.  Miss  Perrit's  got  a  miserable 
disposition,  and  I'm  sorry  for  her.  A  mint  of  money 
wouldn't  make  her  happy.  She's  a  doleful  Christian  ; 


ANN  POTTER'S  LESSON.  321 

she  don't  take  any  comfort  in  anything,  and  I  really  do 
pity  her." 

And  that  was  just  the  way  mother  took  everything. 

At  first  we  couldn't  sell  the  farm.  It  was  down  at 
the  foot  of  Torringford  Hill,  two  good  miles  from 
meetin',  and  a  mile  from  the  school-house  ;  most  of  it 
was  woodsy,  and  there  wa'n't  no  great  market  for  wood 
about  there.  So  for  the  first  year  Squire  Potter  took 
it  on  shares,  and,  as  he  principally  seeded  it  down  to 
rye,  why,  we  sold  the  rye  and  got  a  little  money,  but 
'twa'n't  a  great  deal,  —  no  more  than  we  wanted  for 
clothes  the  next  winter.  Aunt  Langdon  sent  us  down 
a  lot  of  maple- sugar  from  Lee,  and  when  we  wanted 
molasses  we  made  it  out  of  that.  We  didn't  have  to 
buy  no  great  of  groceries,  for  we  could  spin  and  knit 
by  firelight,  and,  part  of  the  land  bein'  pin}*  woods,  we 
had  a  good  lot  of  knots  that  were  as  bright  as  lamps 
for  all  we  wanted.  Then  we  had  a  dozen  chickens, 
and  by  pains  and  care  they  laid  pretty  well,  and  the 
eggs  were  as  good  as  gold.  So  we  lived  through  the 
first  year  after  father  died  prett}7  well. 

Anybody  that  couldn't  get  along  with  mother  and 
Major  (I  always  called  Mary  Jane  "  Major"  when  I 
was  real  little,  and  the  name  kind  of  sta}*ed  by) 
couldn't  get  along  with  anybody.  I  was  as  happy  as  a 
cricket  whilst  they  were  by  ;  though,  to  speak  truth,  I 
wasn't  naturally  so  chirpy  as  they  were.  I  took  after 
father  more,  who  was  a  kind  of  a  despoudin'  man, 
down-hearted,  never  thinkin'  things  could  turn  out 
right,  or  that  he  was  goin'  to  have  any  luck.  That 
was  my  natur',  and  mother  see  it,  and  fought  ag'inst  it 
like  a  real  Buuker-Hiller  ;  but  natur'  is  hard  to  root  up, 
and  there  was  always  times  when  I  wanted  to  sulk 


322  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

away  into  a  corner  and  think  nobody  wanted  me,  and 
that  I  was  poor  and  humbl}",  and  had  to  work  for  my 
living. 

I  remember  one  time  I'd  gone  up  into  my  room 
before  tea  to  have  one  of  them  dismal  fits.  Miss 
Perrit  had  been  in  to  see  mother,  and  she'd  been 
tellin'  over  what  luck  Nancy'd  had  down  to  Hartford  : 
how't  she  had  gone  into  a  shop,  and  a  young  man  had 
been  struck  with  her  good  looks,  an  he'd  turned  out 
to  be  a  master-shoemaker,  and  Nancy  was  a-goin'  to 
be  married,  and  so  on,  —  a  rigmarole  as  long  as  the 
moral  law, — windin'  up  with  askin'  mother  why  she 
didn't  send  us  girls  off  to  try  our  luck,  for  Major  was 
as  old  as  Nance  Perrit.  I'd  waited  to  hear  mother  say, 
in  her  old,  bright  way,  that  she  couldn't  afford  it,  and 
she  couldn't  spare  us  if  she  had  the  means,  and  then 
I  flung  up  into  our  room, — that  was  a  lean-to  in  the 
garret,  with  a  winder  in  the  gable  end,  — and  there  I 
set  down  by  the  winder  with  my  chin  on  the  sill,  and 
begun  to  wonder  why  we  couldn't  have  as  good  luck 
as  the  Perrits.  After  I'd  got  real  miserable  I  heerd 
a  soft  step  comin'  upstairs,  and  Major  come  in  and 
looked  at  me  and  then  out  of  the  winder. 

"  What's  the  matter  of  you,  Anny?"  said  she. 

"  Nothing,"  says  I,  as  sulk}-  as  you  please. 

"  Nothing  always  means  something,"  says  Major,  as 
pleasant  as  pie  ;  and  then  she  scooched  down  on  the 
floor  and  pulled  my  two  hands  away,  and  looked  me  in 
the  face  as  bright  and  honest  as  ever  you  see  a  dande 
lion  look  out  of  the  grass.  "  What  is  it,  Anny?  Spit 
it  out,  as  Reub  Potter  says ;  you'll  feel  better  to  free 
your  mind." 

"  Well,"  says  I,  "  Major,  I'm  tired  of  bad  luck." 


ANN  POTTER'S  LESSON.  323 

"  Why,  Army  !  I  didn't  know  as  we'd  had  any.  I'm 
sure,  it's  three  years  since  father  died,  and  we  have 
had  enough  to  live  on  all  that  time,  and  I've  got  my 
schooling,  and  we  are  all  well ;  and  just  look  at  the 
apple-trees,  —  all  as  pink  as  your  frock  with  blossoms  ; 
that's  good  for  new  cloaks  next  winter,  Anny." 

"  'Taint  that,  Major.  I  was  thinkin'  about  Nancy 
Perrit.  If  we'd  had  the  luck  to  go  to  Hartford  may  be 
you'd  have  been  as  well  off  as  she ;  and  then  I'd 
have  got  work,  too.  And  I  wish  I  was  as  pretty  as 
she  is,  Major ;  it  does  seem  too  bad  to  be  poor  and 
humbly  too." 

I  wonder  she  didn't  laugh  at  me,  but  she  was  feelin* 
for  folks,  always.  She  put  her  head  on  the  window- 
sill  along  of  mine,  and  kinder  nestled  up  to  me  in  her 
lovin'  way,  and  said,  softly  :  — 

"  I  wouldn't  quarrel  with  the  Lord,  Anny." 

"  Why,  Major !  you  scare  me  !  I  haven't  said  noth- 
in'  against  the  Lord.  What  do  you  mean  ? "  said  I ; 
for  I  was  touchy,  real  touchy. 

"  Well,  dear,  you  see  we've  done  all  we  can  to  help 
ourselves  ;  and  what's  over  and  above,  that  we  can't 
help,  — that  is  what  the  Lord  orders,  aint  it?  And  he 
made  you,  didn't  he?  You  can't  change  your  face; 
and  I'm  glad  of  it,  for  it  is  Anny's  face,  and  I  wouldn't 
have  it  changed  a  mite.  There'll  always  be  two  people 
to  think  it's  sightly  enough,  and  may  be  more  by  and 
by ;  so  I  wouldn't  quarrel  wilh  it,  if  I  were  you." 

Major's  happy  eyes  always  helped  me.  I  looked  at 
her  and  felt  better.  She  wasn't  any  better-lookin'  than 
I ;  but  she  was  always  so  chirk,  and  smart,  and  neat, 
and  pretty-behaved,  that  folks  thought  she  was  hand 
some  after  thev  knowed  her. 


324  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

Well,  after  a  spell  there  was  a  railroad  laid  out  up 
the  valley,  and  all  the  land  thereabouts  riz  in  price 
right  away  ;  and  Squire  Potter  he  bought  our  farm  on 
speculation,  and  give  a  good  price  for  it ;  so't  we  had 
two  thousand  dollars  in  the  bank,  and  the  house  and 
lot,  and  the  barn,  and  the  cow.  By  this  time  Major 
was  twenty-two  and  I  was  eighteen  ;  and  Squire  Potter 
he'd  left  his  house  up  on  the  hill,  and  he'd  bought  out 
Miss  Perrit's  house,  and  added  on  to't,  and  moved 
down  not  far  from  us,  so's  to  be  near  the  railroad- 
depot,  for  the  sake  of  bein'  handy  to  the  woods,  for 
cuttin'  and  haulin'  of  them  down  to  the  track.  'Twasn't 
very  pleasant  at  first  to  see  our  dear  old  woods  goin' 
off  to  be  burned  that  way ;  but  Squire  Potter's  folks 
were  such  good  neighbors  we  gained  as  much  as  we 
lost,  and  a  sight  more,  for  folks  are  greatly  better'n 
trees,  —  at  least,  clever  folks. 

There  was  a  whole  raft  of  the  Potters,  —  eight  chil 
dren  of  'em  all,  —  some  too  young  to  be  mates  for  Major 
and  me,  but  Mary  Potter,  and  Reuben,  and  Russell, 
they  were  along  about  as  old  as  we  were.  Russell 
come  between  Major  and  me ;  the  other  two  was 
older. 

We  kinder  kept  to  home  always,  Major  and  me, 
because  we  hadn't  any  brothers  to  go  out  with  us  ;  so 
we  were  prett}*  shy  of  new  friends  at  first.  But  you 
couldn't  help  bein'  friendly  with  the  Potters,  they  was 
such  outspoken,  kindly  creturs,  from  the  Squire  down 
to  little  Hen.  And  it  was  very  handy  for  us,  because 
now  we  could  go  to  singin'-schools  and  quiltin's,  and 
such-like  places,  of  an  evenin'  ;  and  we  had  rather 
moped  at  home  for  want  of  such  things,  —  at  least  I 
had ;  and  I  should  have  been  more  moped  only  for 


ANN  POTTER'S  LESSON.  325 

Major's  sweet  ways.  She  was  always  as  contented  as 
a  honey-bee  on  a  clover-head,  for  the  same  reason,  I 
guess. 

Well,  there  was  a  good  many  good  things  come  to 
us  from  the  Potters'  movin'  down  ;  but  by  and  by  it 
seemed  as  though  I  was  goin'  to  get  the  bitter  of  it. 
I'd  kept  compan}1-  pretty  steady  with  Russell.  I  hadn't 
give  much  thought  to  it,  neither.  I  liked  his  ways, 
and  he  seemed  to  give  in  to  mine  very  natural,  so't  we 
got  along  together  first-rate.  It  didn't  seem  as  though 
we'd  ever  been  strangers,  and  I  wasn't  one  to  make 
believe  at  stiffness  when  I  didn't  feel  it.  I  told 
Russell  pretty  much  all  I  had  to  tell,  and  he  was  allers 
doin'  for  me  and  runnin'  after  me  jest  as  though  he'd 
been  my  brother.  I  didn't  know  how  much  I  did  think 
of  him,  till,  after  a  while,  he  seemed  to  take  a  sight  of 
notice  of  Major.  I  can't  say  he  ever  stopped  bein' 
clever  to  me,  for  he  didn't ;  but  he  seemed  to  have  a 
kind  of  a  hankerin'  after  Major  all  the  time.  He'd 
take  her  off  to  walk  with  him ;  he'd  dig  up  roots  in  the 
woods  for  her  posy-bed ;  he'd  hold  her  skeins  of  yarn 
as  patient  as  a  little  dog ;  he'd  get  her  books  to  read. 
Well,  he'd  done  all  this  for  me ;  but  when  I  see  him 
doin'  it  for  her,  it  was  quite  different ;  and  all  to  once 
I  know'd  what  was  the  matter.  I'd  thought  too  much 
of  Russell  Potter. 

Oh,  dear !  those  was  dark  times  !  I  couldn't  blame 
him ;  I  knew  well  enough  Major  was  miles  and  miles 
better  and  sweeter  and  cleverer  than  I  was.  I  didn't 
wonder  he  liked  her ;  but  I  couldn't  feel  as  if  he'd  done 
right  by  me.  So  I  schooled  myself  considerable,  talkin' 
to  myself  for  being  jealous  of  Major.  But  'twasn't  all 
that,  —  the  hardest  of  it  all  was  that  I  had  to  mistrust 


326  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

Russell.  To  be  sure,  he  hadn't  said  nothin'  to  me  in 
round  words,  —  I  couldn't  ha'  sued  him  ;  but  he'd  looked 
and  acted  enough ;  and  now,  —  dear  me !  I  felt  all 
wrung  out  and  flung  away  ! 

By  and  by  Major  begun  to  see  somethin'  was  goin' 
wrong,  and  so  did  Russell.  She  was  as  good  as  she 
could  be  to  me,  and  had  patience  with  all  my  little, 
pettish  ways,  and  tried  to  make  me  friendly  with 
Russell ;  but  I  wouldn't.  I  took  to  hard  work,  and, 
what  with  cryhi'  nights,  and  hard  work  all  day,  I  got 
pretty  well  overdone.  But  it  all  went  on  for  about 
three  months,  till  one  day  Russell  come  up  behind  me, 
as  I  was  layin'  out  some  yarn  to  bleach  down  at  the 
end  of  the  orchard,  and  asked  me  if  I'd  go  down  to 
Meriden  with  him  next  day,  to  a  picnic  frolic,  in  the 
woods. 

"  No  !  "  says  I,  as  short  as  I  could. 

Russell  looked  as  though  I  had  slapped  him.  "  Anny," 
says  he,  "  what  have  I  done?" 

I  turned  round  to  go  away,  and  I  catched  my  foot 
in  a  hank  of  yarn,  and  down  I  come  flat  on  to  the 
ground,  havin'  sprained  my  ankle  so  bad  that  Russell 
had  to  pick  me  up  and  carry  me  into  the  house  like  a 
baby. 

There  was  an  end  of  Meriden  for  me ;  and  he 
wouldn't  go,  either,  but  come  over  and  sat  by  me,  and 
read  to  me,  and  somehow  or  other,  I  don't  remember 
just  the  words,  he  gave  me  to  understand  that  —  well 
—  that  he  wished  I'd  marry  him. 

It's  about  as  tirin'  to  be  real  pleased  with  anything 
as  it  is  to  be  troubled,  at  first.  I  couldn't  say  anything 
to  Russell ;  I  just  cried.  Major  wasn't  there  ;  mother 
was  dryin'  apples  out  in  the  shed  ;  so  Russell  he  didn't 


ANN  POTTER'S  LESSON.  327 

know  what  to  do ;  he  kind  of  hushed  me  up,  and 
begged  of  me  not  to  cry,  and  said  he'd  come  for  his 
answer  next  day.  So  he  come,  and  I  didn't  say  "  No  " 
again.  I  don't  believe  I  stopped  to  think  whether 
Major  liked  him.  She  would  have  thought  of  me,  first 
thing ;  I  believe  she  wouldn't  have  had  him  if  she'd 
thought  I  wanted  him.  But  I  aint  like  Major  ;  it  come 
more  natural  to  me  to  think  about  myself  ;  and,  besides, 
she  was  pious,  and  I  wasn't.  Russell  was. 

However,  it  turned  out  all  right,  for  Major  was  'most 
as  pleased  as  I  was ;  and  she  told  me,  finally,  that 
she'd  known  a  long  spell  that  Russell  liked  me,  and  the 
reason  he'd  been  hangin'  round  her  so  long  was,  he'd 
been  tellin'  her  his  plans,  and  they'd  worked  out  con 
siderable  in  their  heads  before  she  could  feel  as  though 
he  had  a  good-enough  lookout  to  ask  me  to  marry  him. 

That  wasn't  so  pleasant  to  me,  when  I  come  to  think 
of  it ;  I  thought  I'd  ought  to  have  been  counselled  with. 
But  it  was  just  like  Major ;  everybody  come  to  her  for 
a  word  of  help  or  comfort,  whether  they  took  her  idee 
or  not,  —  she  had  such  feelin'  for  other  folks's  trouble. 

I  got  over  that  little  nub  after  a  while  ;  and  then  I 
was  so  pleased  everything  went  smooth  ag'in.  I  was 
goin'  to  be  married  in  the  spring ;  and  we  were  goin* 
straight  out  to  Indiana,  onto  some  wild  land  Squire 
Potter  owned  out  there,  to  clear  it  and  settle  it ;  and 
what  Russell  cleared,  he  was  to  have.  So  mother  took 
some  money  out  of  the  bank  to  fit  me  out,  and  Major 
and  I  went  down  to  Hartford  to  buy  my  things. 

I  said  before,  we  wasn't  either  of  us  any  great  things 
to  look  at ;  but  it  come  about  that  one  day  I  heerd 
somebody  tall  how  we  did  look,  and  I  thought  consider 
able  about  it  then  and  afterwards.  We  was  buyin' 


328  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

some  cotton  to  a  store  in  the  city,  and  I  was  lookiu' 
about  at  all  the  pretty  things,  and  wonderin'  why  I  was 
picked  out  to  be  poor  when  so  many  folks  was  rich  and 
had  all  they  wanted,  when  presently  I  heerd  a  lady  in 
a  silk  gown  say  to  another  one,  so  low  she  thought  I 
didn't  hear  her,  "  There  are  two  nice-looking  girls, 
Mrs.  Carr." 

"Hem  —  yes,"  said  the  other  one;  "they  look 
healthy  and  strong  ;  the  oldest  one  has  a  lovely  expres 
sion,  both  steady  and  sweet ;  the  other  don't  look 
happy." 

.  I  declare,  that  was  a  fact.  I  was  sony,  too,  for  I'd 
got  everythin'  in  creation  to  make  anybody  happy,  and 
now  I  was  frettiu'  to  be  rich.  I  thought  I'd  try  to  be 
like  Major  ;  but  I  expect  it  was  mostly  because  of  the 
looks  of  it,  for  I  forgot  to  try  before  long. 

Well,  in  the  spring  we  was  married ;  and  when  I 
come  to  go  away  Major  put  a  little  red  Bible  into  my 
trunk  for  a  weddin'  present ;  but  I  was  cryin'  too  hard 
to  thank  her.  She  swallowed  down  whatever  choked 
her,  and  begged  of  me  not  to  cry  so,  lest  Russell  should 
take  it  hard  that  I  mourned  to  go  with  him.  But  just 
then  I  was  thinkin'  more  of  Major  and  mother  than  I 
was  of  Russell ;  they'd  kept  me  bright  and  cheery 
always,  and  kept  up  my  heart  with  their  own  good  ways 
when  I  hadn't  no  strength  to  do  it  for  myself ; 
and  now  I  was  goiu'  off  alone  with  Russell,  and  he 
wasn't  very  cheerful-dispositioned,  and  somehow  my 
courage  give  way  all  to  once. 

But  I  had  to  go ;  railroads  don't  wait  for  nobody  ; 
and  what  with  the  long  journey,  and  the  new  ways  and 
things  and  people,  I  hadn't  no  time  to  get  real  down 
once  before  we  got  to  Indiana.  After  we  left  the  boat 


ANN  POTTER'S  LESSON.  329 

there  was  a  spell  of  railroad,  and  then  a  long  stage-ride 
to  Cumberton ;  and  then  we  had  to  hire  a  big  wagon 
and  team,  so's  to  get  us  out  to  our  claim,  thirty  miles 
west'ard  of  Cumberton.  I  hadn't  no  time  to  feel  real 
lonesome  now,  for  all  our  things  hed  got  to  be  onpacked, 
and  packed  over  ag'in  in  the  wagon ;  some  on  'em  had 
to  be  stored  up,  so's  to  come  another  time.  We  was 
two  days  gettin'  to  the  claim,  the  roads  was  so  bad,  — 
mostly  what  they  call  corduroy,  but  a  good  stretch  clear 
mud-holes.  By  the  time  we  got  to  the  end  on't  I  was 
tired  out,  just  fit  to  cry ;  and  such  a  house  as  was 
waitin'  for  us  !  —  a  real  log  shanty !  I  see  Russell 
looked  real  beat  when  he  see  my  face,  and  I  tried  to 
brighten  up  ;  but  I  wished  to  my  heart  I  was  back  with 
mother  forty  times  that  night,  if  I  did  once.  Then 
come  the  worst  of  all,  clutteiin'  everything  right  into 
that  shanty  ;  for  our  frame-house  wouldn't  be  done  for 
two  months,  and  there  wa'n't  scarce  room  for  what  we'd 
brought,  so't  we  couldn't  think  of  sendin'  for  what  was 
stored  to  Cumberton.  I  didn't  sleep  none  for  two 
nights,  because  of  the  whip-poor-wills  that  set  on  a  tree 
close  by,  and  called  till  moruin'  light ;  but  after  that  I 
was  too  tired  to  lie  awake. 

Well,  it  was  real  lonesome ;  but  it  was  all  new  at 
first,  and  Russell  was  to  work  near  by,  so't  I  could  see 
him,  and  oftentimes  hear  him  whistle ;  and  I  had  the 
garden  to  make,  round  to  the  new  house,  for  I  knew 
more  about  the  plantin'  of  it  than  he  did,  'specially  my 
posy-bed,  and  I  had  a  good  time  gettin'  new  flowers  out 
of  the  woods.  And  the  woods  was  real  splendid,  — 
great,  tall  tulip-trees,  as  high  as  a  steeple  and  round  as 
a  quill,  without  an}'  sort  o'  branches  ever  so  fur  up,  and 
the  whole  top  full  of  the  yeller  tulips  and  the  queer, 


330  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

snipped-lookin',  shiny  leaves,  till  they  looked  like  great 
bow-pots  on  sticks  ;  then  there's  lots  of  other  great 
trees,  only  they're  all  mostly  spindled  up  in  them  woods. 
But  the  flowers  that  grow  round  on  the  ma'sh  edges  and 
in  the  clearin's  do  beat  all. 

So  time  passed  along  pretty  glib  till  the  frame-house 
was  done,  and  then  we  had  to  move  in,  and  to  get  the 
things  from  Cumberton,  and  begin  to  feel  as  though 
we  were  settled  for  good  and  all ;  and  after  the  new 
ness  had  gone  off,  and  the  clearin'  got  so  fur  that  I 
couldn't  see  Russell  no  more,  and  nobody  to  look  at,  if 
I  was  never  so  lonesome,  then  come  a  pretty  hard  spell. 
Everything  about  the  house  was  real  hand}',  so't  I'd 
get  my  work  cleared  away,  and  set  down  to  sew  earbr ; 
and  them  long  summer  days,  that  was  still  and  hot,  I'd 
set,  and  set,  never  hearin'  nothin'  but  the  clock  go 
"  tick,  tick,  tick"  (never  "  tack,"  for  a  change),  and 
every  now'n'then  a  great  crash  and  roar  in  the  woods 
where  he  was  choppin',  that  I  knew  was  a  tree  ;  and  I 
worked  myself  up  dreadfully  when  there  was  a  longer 
spell  'n  common  come  betwixt  the  crashes,  lest  that 
Russell  might  'a'  been  ketched  under  the  one  that  fell. 
And  settin'  so,  and  worryin'  a  good  deal,  day  in  and 
day  out,  kinder  broodin'  over  nry  troubles,  and  never 
thinkin'  about  anybody  but  myself,  I  got  to  be  of  the 
idee  that  I  was  the  worst-off  cretur  goin'.  If  I'd 
have  stopped  to  think  about  Russell,  may  be  I  should 
have  had  some  sort  of  pity  for  him,  for  he  was  jest  as 
lonesome  as  I,  and  I  wasn't  no  kind  of  comfort  to 
come  home  to,  —  'most  always  cryin',  or  jest  a-goin' 
to. 

So  the  summer  went  along  till  'twas  nigh  on  to 
winter,  and  I  wa'n't  in  no  better  sperrits.  And  now  I 


ANN  POTTER'S  LESSON.  331 

wa'n't  real  well,  and  I  pined  for  mother,  and  I  pined 
for  Major,  and  I'd  have  given  all  the  honey  and  buck 
wheat  in  Indiana  for  a  loaf  of  mother's  dry  r3'e-bread 
and  a  drink  of  spring- water.  And  finally  I  got  so 
miserable  I  wished  I  wa'n't  never  married,  —  and  I'd 
have  wished  I  was  dead,  if  'twa'n't  for  bein'  doubtful 
where  I'd  go  to  if  I  was.  And,  worst  of  all,  one  day  I 
got  so  worked  up  I  told  Russell  all  that.  I  declare  he 
turned  as  wliite**as  a  turnip.  I  see  I'd  hurt  him,  and 
I'd  have  got  over  it  in  a  minute  and  told  him  so,  only 
he  up  with  his  axe  and  walked  out  of  the  door,  and 
never  come  home  till  night,  and  then  I  was  too  stub 
born  to  speak  to  him. 

"Well,  things  got  worse,  an'  one  day  I  was  sewin' 
some  things  and  cryin'  over  'em,  when  I  heerd  a  team 
come  along  by,  and  before  I  could  get  to  the  door 
Russell  come  in,  all  red  for  joy,  and  says  :  — 

"  Who  do  you  want  to  see  most,  Anny  ?" 

Somehow  the  question  kind  of  upset  me, — I  got 
choked,  and  then  I  bu'st  out  a-cryin'. 

"Oh,  mother  and  Major!"  says  I;  and  I  hadn't 
more'n  spoke  the  word  before  mother  had  both  her 
good,  strong  arms  round  me,  and  Major's  real  cheery 
face  was  a-lookin'  up  at  me  from  the  little  pine  cricket, 
where  she'd  sot  down  as  nateral  as  life.  Well,  I  was 
glad,  and  so  was  Russell,  and  the  house  seemed  as 
shiny  as  a  hang-bird's  nest,  and  by  and  by  the  baby 
came  ;  —  but  I  had  mother. 

'Twas  'long  about  in  March  when  I  was  sick,  and  by 
the  end  of  April  I  was  well,  and  so's  to  be  stirriu' 
round  again.  And  mother  and  Major  begun  to  talk 
about  goin'  home  ;  and  I  declare  my  heart  was  up  in 
my  mouth  every  time  the}'  spoke  on't,  and  I  begun  to 


332  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

be  miserable  ag'in.  One  day  I  was  settin'  beside  of 
mother,  —  Major  was  out  in  the  garden,  fixin'  up  things, 
and  settin'  out  a  lot  of  blows  she'd  got  in  the  woods, 
and  singin'  away,  —  and  says  I  to  mother  :  — 

"  What  be  I  going  to  do,  mother,  without  you  and 
Major?  I  'most  died  of  clear  louesomeness  before  you 
come !  " 

Mother  laid  down  her  knittin',  and  looked  straight  at 
me. 

"  I  wish  you'd  got  a  little  of  Major's  good  cheer, 
Annj-,"  says  she.  "  You  haven't  any  call  to  be  lonely 
here ;  it's  a  real  good  country,  and  you've  got  a  nice 
house,  and  the  best  of  husbands,  and  a  dear  little  baby, 
and  you'd  oughter  try  to  give  up  frettin'.  I  wish  you 
was  pious,  Anny ;  you  wouldn't  fault  the  Lord's  good 
ness  the  way  you  do." 

"Well,  Major  don't. have  nothin'  to  trouble  her, 
mother,"  says  I.  "  She's  all  safe  and  pleasant  to 
home  ;  she  aint  homesick." 

Mother  spoke  up  pretty  resolute  :  — 

"  There  aint  nobody  in  the  world,  Anny,  but  what 
has  troubles.  I  didn't  calc'late  to  tell  you  about 
Major's  ;  but  sence  you  lay  her  lively  ways  to  luck, 
may  be  you'd  better  know  'em.  She's  been  engaged 
this  six  months  to  Reuben  Potter,  and  he's  gom'  off  in 
a  slow  consumption  ;  he  won't  never  live  to  marry  her, 
and  she  knows  it." 

"And  she  come  away  to  see  me,  mother?" 

"  Yes,  she  did.  I  can't  say  I  thought  she  need  to  ; 
but  Russell  wrote  you  was  pinin'  for  both  of  us,  and  I 
didn't  think  you  could  get  along  without  me  ;  but  I  told 
her  to  stay  with  Reuben,  and  I'd  come  on  alone.  And 
says  she,  '  No,  mother,  you  aint  young  and  spry 


ANN  POTTER'S  LESSON.  333 

enough  to  go  alone  so  fur,  and  the  Lord  made  }"ou  my 
mother  and  Anny  my  sister  before  I  picked  out  Reuben 
for  myself.  I  can't  never  have  any  kin  but  you,  and  I 
might  have  had  somebody  beside  Reuben,  though  it 
don't  seem  likely  now  ;  but  he's  got  four  sisters  to  take 
care  of  him,  and  he  thinks  and  I  think  it's  what  I 
ought  to  do ;  so  I'm  goin'  with  you.'  So  she  come, 
Anny ;  and  you  see  how  lively  she  keeps,  just  because 
she  don't  want  to  dishearten  you  none.  I  don't  know 
as  you  can  blame  her  for  kinder  hankerin'  to  get  home." 

I  hadn't  nothin'  to  say  ;  I  was  beat.  So  mother  she 
went  on  :  — 

"  Fact  is,  Anny,  Major's  always  a-thinkin'  about 
other  folks  ;  it  comes  kind  of  nateral  to  her,  and  then 
bein'  pious  helps  it.  I  guess,  dear,  when  you  get  to 
thinkin'  more  about  Russell^u'  the  baby  you'll  forget 
some  of  your  troubles.  I  hope  the  Lord  won't  have  to 
give  you  no  harder  lesson  than  lovin',  to  teach  you 
Major's  ways." 

So,  after  that,  I  couldn't  say  no  more  to  mother 
about  stayin' ;  but  when  they  went  away  I  like  to  have 
cried  myself  sick,  —  only  baby  had  to  be  looked  after, 
and  I  couldn't  dodge  her. 

Bym-by  we  had  letters  from  home.  They  got  there 
all  safe,  and  Reuben  wa'n't  no  worse,  Major  said,  — 
eft  had  been  me  wrote  the  letter  I  should  have  said  he 
wa'n't  no  better,  — and  I  fell  back  into  the  old  lone 
some  days,  for  baby  slept  mostly,  and  the  summer 
come  on  extreme  hot ;  and  in  Jul\',  Russell,  bein'  forced 
to  go  to  Cumberton  on  some  land  business,  left  me  to 
home  with  baby  and  the  hired  man,  calc'latin'  to  be 
gone  three  days  and  two  nights. 

The  first  day  he  was  away  was  dreadful  sultry ;  the 


334  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

sun  went  down  away  over  the  woods  in  a  kind  of  red- 
hot  fog,  and  it  seemed  as  though  the  stars  were  dull 
and  coppery  at  night ;  even  the  whip-poor-wills  was  too 
hot  to  sing  ;  nothin'  but  a  doleful  screech-owl  quavered 
away,  a  half  a  mile  off,  a  good  hour,  stead}'.  When  it 
got  to  be  mornin'  it  didn't  seem  no  cooler  ;  there  wa'n't 
a  breath  of  wind,  and  the  locusts  in  the  woods  chittered 
as  though  they  was  fryin'.  Our  hired  man  was  an  old 
Scotchman,  by  name  Simon  Grant ;  and  when  he'd  got 
his  breakfast  he  said  he'd  go  down  the  clearin'  and 
bring  up  a  load  of  brush  for  me  to  burn.  So  he  drove 
off  with  the  team,  and  havin'  cleared  up  the  dishes  I 
put  baby  to  sleep,  and  took  my  pail  to  the  barn  to  milk 
the  cow,  —  for  we  kept  her  in  a  kind  of  a  home-lot  like, 
a  part  that  had  been  cleared  afore  we  come,  lest  she 
should  straj-  in  the  woods,  if  we  turned  her  loose.  She 
was  put  in  the  barn,  too,  nights,  for  fear  some  stray 
wild-cat  or  bear  might  come  along  and  do  her  a  harm. 
So  I  let  her  into  the  yard,  and  was  jest  a-goin'  to  milk 
her  when  she  began  to  snort  and  shake,  and  finally  giv' 
the  pail  a  kick,  and  set  off,  full  swing,  for  the  fence  to 
the  lot.  I  looked  round  to  see  what  was  a-comin',  and 
there,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off,  I  see  the  most 
curus  thing  I  ever  see  before  or  since,  —  a  cloud  as 
black  as  ink  in  the  sk}-,  and  hangin'  down  from  it  a 
long  spout  like,  —  something  like  an  elephant's  trunk, 
and  the  whole  world  under  it  looked  to  be  all  beat  to 
dust.  Before  I  could  get  my  eyes  off  on't,  or  stir  to 
run,  I  see  it  was  comiu'  as  fast  as  a  locomotive.  I 
heerd  a  great  roar  and  rush, — first  a  hot  wind,  and 
then  a  cold  one,  and  then  a  crash,  —  an'  'twas  all  as 
dark  as  death  all  round,  and  the  roar  appeared  to  be 
a-passin'  off. 


ANN  POTTER'S  LESSON.  335 

I  didn't  know  for  quite  a  spell  where  I  was.  I  was 
flat  on  my  face,  and  when  I  come  to  a  little  I  felt  the 
grass  against  my  cheek,  and  I  smelt  the  earth ;  but  I 
couldn't  move  no  way.  I  couldn't  turn  over,  nor  raise 
my  head  rnore'n  two  inches,  nor  draw  myself  up  one. 
I  was  comfortable  so  long  as  I  laid  still ;  but  if  I  went 
to  move  I  couldn't.  It  wasn't  no  use  to  wriggle  ;  and 
when  I'd  settled  that  I  just  went  to  work  to  figger  out 
where  I  was  and  how  I  got  there,  and  the  best  I  could 
make  out  was  that  the  barn-roof  had  blowed  off  and 
lighted  right  over  me,  jest  so  as  not  to  hurt  me,  but 
so't  I  couldn't  move. 

Well,  there  I  lay.  I  knew  baby  was  asleep  in  the 
trundle-bed,  and  there  wa'n't  no  fire  in  the  house  ;  but 
how  did  I  know  the  house  wa'n't  blowed  down?  I 
thought  that  as  quick  as  a  flash  of  lightnin' ;  it  kinder 
struck  me  ;  I  couldn't  even  see,  so  as  to  be  certain.  I 
wasn't  naterally  fond  of  children,  but  somehow  one's 
own  is  different,  and  baby  was  just  gettin'  big  enough 
to  be  pretty  ;  and  there  I  lay,  feelin'  about  as  bad  as  I 
could,  but  hangin'  on  to  one  hope,  —  that  old  Simon, 
seein'  the  tornado,  would  come  pretty  soon  to  see 
where  we  was. 

(I  lay  still  quite  a  spell,  listenin'.  Presently  I  heerd 
a  low,  whimperin',  pantin'  noise,  comin'  nearer  and 
nearer,  and  I  knew  it  was  old  Lu,  a  yeller  hound  of 
Simon's,  that  he'd  set  great  store  by,  because  he 
brought  him  from  the  old  country.  I  heered  the  dog 
come  pretty  near  to  where  I  was,  and  then  stop,  and 
give  a-  long  howl.  I  tried  to  call  him,  but  I  was  all 
choked  up  with  dust,  and  for  a  while  I  couldn't  make 
no  sound.  Finally  I  called,  "  Lu  !  Lu  !  Here,  sir  !  " 
and  if  ever  you  heerd  a  dumb  creature  laugh,  he 


336  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

barked  a  real  laugh,  and  come  springin'  along  over 
toward  me.  I  called  ag'in,  and  he  begun  to  scratch 
and  tear  and  pull,  —  at  boards,  I  guessed,  for  it 
sounded  like  that ;  but  it  wa'n't  no  use,  he  couldn't 
get  at  me,  and  he  give  up  at  length  and  set  down 
right  over  my  head  and  give  another  howl,  so  long  and 
so  dismal  I  thought  I'd  as  lieves  hear  the  bell  a-tollui' 
my  age. 

Pretty  soon  I  heerd  another  sound,  —  the  baby 
cryin' ;  and  with  that  Lu  jumped  off  whatever  'twas 
that  buried  me  up,  and  run.  "  At  any  rate,"  thinks  I, 
"baby's  alive."  And  then  I  bethought  myself  if  'twa'n't 
a  painter,  after  all ;  they  scream  jest  like  a  baby,  and 
there's  a  lot  of  them,  or  there  was  then,  right  round  in 
our  woods,  and  Lu  was  dreadful  fond  to  hunt  'em, 
and  he  never  took  no  notice  of  baby  ;  —  and  I  couldn't 
stir  to  see  ! 

Oh,  dear !  the  sweat  stood  all  over  me.  And  there 
I  lay,  and  Simon  didn't  come,  nor  I  didn't  hear  a  mouse 
stir ;  the  air  was  as  still  as  death,  and  I  got  nigh  dis 
tracted.  Seemed  as  if  all  my  life  riz  right  up  there  in 
the  dark  and  looked  at  me.  Here  I  was,  all  helpless, 
may  be  never  to  get  out  alive  ;  for  Simon  didn't  come, 
and  Russell  was  gone  away.  I'd  had  a  good  home,  and 
a  kind  husband,  and  all  I  could  ask  ;  but  I  hadn't  had  a 
contented  mind.  I'd  quarrelled  with  Providence,  'cause 
I  hadn't  got  everything  —  and  now  I  hadn't  got  noth 
ing.  I  see  just  as  clear  as  daylight  how  I'd  nussecl  up 
every  little  trouble  till  it  growed  to  a  big  one  ;  how 
I'd  sp'ilt  Russell's  life,  and  made  him  wretched  ;  how 
I'd  been  cross  to  him  a  great  many  times  when  I  had 
ought  to  have  been  a  comfort ;  and  now  it  was  like 
enough  I  shouldn't  never  see  him  again  —  nor  baby, 


^4AT.V  POTTER'S  LESSON.  337 

nor  mother,  nor  Major.  And  how  could  I  look  the 
Lord  in  the  face  if  I  did  die?  That  took  all  my 
strength  out.  I  lay  shakiu'  and  chokin'  with  the  idee, 
I  don't  know  how  long  ;  it  kind  of  got  hold  of  me  and 
ground  me  down  ;  it  was  worse  than  all.  I  wished  to 
gracious  I  didn't  believe  in  hell ;  but  then  it  come  to 
mind,  What  should  I  do  in  heaven  ef  I  was  there?  I 
didn't  love  nothin'  that  folks  in  heaven  love,  except  the 
bab}'.  I  hadn't  been  suited  with  the  Lord's  will  on 
earth,  and  'twa'n't  likely  I  was  goin'  to  like  it  any 
better  in  heaven  ;  and  I  should  be  ashamed  to  show  my 
face  where  I  didn't  belong,  neither  by  right  nor  by  want. 
So  I  lay.  Presently  I  heerd  in  my  mind  this  verse, 
that  I'd  learned  years  back  in  Sabbath  school,  — 

"  Wherefore  He  is  able  also  to  save  them  to  the  uttermost." 

There  it  stopped,  but  it  was  a  plenty  for  me.  I  see  at 
once  there  wa'n't  no  help  anywhere  else,  and  for  once 
in  my  life  I  did  pray,  real  earnest,  and  —  queer  enough 
—  not  to  get  out,  but  to  be  made  good.  I  kind  of 
forgot  where  I  was,  I  see  so  complete  what  I  was ;  but 
after  a  while  I  did  pray  to  live  in  the  flesh.  I  wanted 
to  make  some  amends  to  Russell  for  pesterin'  on  him 
so. 

It  seemed  to  me  as  though  I'd  laid  there  two  days. 
A  rain  finally  come  on,  with  a  good,  even  down-pour, 
that  washed  in  a  little,  and  cooled  my  hot  head ;  and 
after  it  passed  by  I  heerd  one  whip-poor-will  singin', 
so't  I  knew  it  was  night.  And  pretty  soon  I  heerd 
the  tramp  of  a  horse's  feet ;  it  come  up ;  it  stopped. 
1  heerd  Russell  say  out  loud,  "O  Lord!"  and  give  a 
groan,  and  then  I  called  to  him.  I  declare,  he 
jumped. 


338  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

So  I  got  him  to  go  look  for  baby  first,  because  I  could 
wait ;  and,  lo  !  she  was  ail  safe  in  the  trundle-bed,  with 
Lu  beside  of  her,  both  on  'em  stretched  out  together, 
one  of  her  little  hands  on  his  nose ;  and  when 
Eussell  looked  in  to  the  door  she  stirred  a  bit,  and  Lu 
licked  her  hand  to  keep  her  quiet.  It  tells  in  the  Bible 
about  children's  angels  always  seein'  the  face  of  God, 
so's  to  know  quick  what  to  do  for  'em,  I  suppose  ;  and 
I'm  sure  her'n  got  to  her  afore  the  tornado  ;  for  though 
the  house-roof  had  blowed  off,  and  the  chimbley  tum 
bled  down,  there  wa'n't  a  splinter  nor  a  brick  on  her 
bed,  only  close  by  the  head  on't  a  great  hunk  of  stone 
had  fell  down,  and  steadied  up  the  clothes-press  from 
tumblin'  right  on  top  of  her. 

So  then  Russell  rode  over,  six  miles,  to  a  neighbor's, 
and  got  two  men,  and  betwixt  'em  all  they  pi'ied  up 
the  beams  of  the  barn,  that  had  blowed  on  to  the  roof 
and  pinned  it  down  over  me,  and  then  lifted  up  the 
boards  and  got  me  out ;  and  I  wa'n't  hurt,  except  a 
few  bruises,  but  after  that  day  I  begun  to  get  gray 
hairs. 

Well,  Russell  was  pretty  thankful,  I  b'lievc,  — 
more  so'n  he  need  to  be  for  such  a  wife.  We  fixed  up 
some  kind  of  a  shelter,  but  Lu  howled  so  all  night  we 
couldn't  sleep.  It  seems  Russell  had  seen  the  tornado 
to  Cumberton,  and,  judgin'  from  its  course  'twould 
come  past  the  clearin',  he  didn't  wait  a  minute,  but 
saddled  up  and  come  off ;  but  it  had  crossed  the  road 
once  or  twice,  so  it  was  nigh  about  eleven  o'clock 
afore  he  got  home  ;  but  it  was  broad  moonlight.  So  I 
hadn't  been  under  the  roof  only  about  fifteen  hours ; 
but  it  seemed  more. 

In  the  mo.rnin'  Russell  set  out  to  find  Simon,  and  I 


ANN  POTTER'S  LESSON.  339 

was  so  trembly  I  couldn't  bear  to  stay  alone,  and  I 
went  Avith  him,  he  carryin'  baby,  and  Lu  goin'  before, 
as  tickled  as  he  could  be.  We  went  a  long  spell 
through  the  woods,  keepiu'  on  the  edge  of  the  tornado's 
road  ;  for't  had  made  a  clean  track  about  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  wide,  and  felled  the  trees  flat, — great  tulips 
cut  off  as  sharp  as  pipe-stems,  oaks  twisted  like  dan 
delion-stems,  and  hickories  curled  right  up  in  a 
heap.  Presently  Lu  gave  a  bark,  and  then  such  a 
howl !  —  and  there  was  Simon,  dead  enough  !  A  big  oak 
had  blowed  down,  with  the  trunk  right  acrost  his  legs 
above  the  knees,  and  smashed  them  almost  off.  'Twas 
plain  it  hadn't  killed  him  to  once,  for  the  ground  all 
about  his  head  was  tore  up  as  though  he'd  fought  with 
it ;  and  Russell  said  his  teeth  and  hands  was  full  of 
grass  and  grit  where  he'd  bit  and  tore,  a-dyin'  so  hard. 
I  declare,  I  shan't  never  forget  that  sight !  Seems  as 
if  my  body  was  full  of  little  ice-spickles  every  time  I  think 
on't. 

Well,  Russell  couldn't  do  nothin' ;  we  had  no  chance 
to  lift  the  tree,  so  we  went  back  to  the  house,  and  he 
rode  away  after  neighbors ;  and  while  he  was  gone  I 
had  a  long  spell  of  thinkin'.  Mother  said  she  hoped  I 
wouldn't  have  no  hard  lesson  to  teach  me  Major's 
ways ;  but  I  had  got  it,  and  I  know  I  needed  it,  'cause 
it  did  come  so  hnrd.  I  b'lieve  I  was  a  better  woman 
after  that.  I  got  to  think  more  of  other  folks's  comfort 
than  I  did  afore,  and  whenever  I  got  goin'  to  be  dismal 
ag'in  I  used  to  try  'n'  find  somebody  to  help  ;  it  was  a 
sure  cure. 

When  the  neighbors  come,  Russell  and  they  blasted 
and  chopped  the  tree  off  of  Simon,  and  buried  him 
under  a  big  pine  that  we  calc'lated  not  to  fell.  Lu 


340  TEE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

pined,  and  howled,  and  moaned  for  his  master,  till  I 
got  him  to  look  after  baby  now  and  then,  when  I  was 
hangin'  out  clothes  or  makin'  garden,  and  he  got  to  like 
her  in  the  end  on't  near  as  well  as  Simon. 

After  a  while  there  come  more  settlers  out  our  way, 
and  we  got  a  church  to  go  to ;  and  the  minister,  Mr. 
Jones,  he  come  to  know  if  I  was  a  member,  and  when 
I  said  I  wa'n't,  he  put  in  to  know  if  I  wa'n't  a  pious 
woman. 

"  Well,"  sa}-s  I,  "  I  don't  know,  sir."  So  I  up  and 
told  him  all  about  it,  and  how  I  had  had  a  hard  lesson  ; 
and  he  smiled  once  or  twice,  and  says  he  :  — 

"  Your  husband  thinks  you  are  a  Christian,  Sister 
Potter,  don't  he  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  says  Russell,  a-comin'  in  behind  me  to 
the  door,  —  for  he'd  just  stepped  out  to  get  the  minis 
ter  a  basket  of  plums,  —  "I  haint  a  doubt  on't,  Mr. 
Jones." 

The  minister  looked  at  him,  and  I  see  he  was  kinder 
pleased. 

"  Well,"  says  he,  "  I  don't  think  there's  much  doubt 
of  a  woman's  bein'  pious  when  she's  pious  to  home  ; 
and  I  don't  want  no  better  testimony'n  yours,  Mr. 
Potter.  I  shall  admit  you  to  full  fellowship,  sister, 
when  we  have  a  church  meetin'  next ;  for  it's  my 
belief  }-ou  experienced  religion  under  that  blowed- 
down  barn." 

And  I  guess  I  did. 


ACELDAMA  SPARKS.  341 


ACELDAMA  SPARKS;    OR,  OLD 
AND   NEW. 


"  I  TELL  yew  what  'tis,  Miss  Sparks,"  said  the  dea 
con,  "  that  are  boy's  got  ter  hev  a  Scriptur'  name.  I 
wa'n't  born  an'  bred  in  Hanover,  an'  hed  a  father  and 
gran'ther  deacons  afore  me  to  be  a-goin'  an'  givin'  the 
boy  sech  a  jography  name  as  Wallis  ;  now  don't  ye  set 
to  no  more." 

Mrs.  Sparks  laughed ;  she  always  laughed ;  it  was 
currently  reported  that  she  laughed  once  in  church,  but 
that  was  scandal.  Eleven  years  had  she  been  married, 
and  now  for  the  first  time  the  ponderous  old  cradle  was 
lugged  from  the  garret  to  hold  a  baby.  No  wonder 
Mrs.  Sparks  laughed  now.  And  such  a  baby  ! 

Only  imagine  Deacon  Ebenezer  Sparks  dressed  in  a 
long  white  frock  and  a  red-edged  blanket,  seen  through 
a  reversed  spy-glass,  and  you  behold  his  baby.  Just 
such  yellow  hair,  sedulously  brushed  on  end  ;  just  such 
a  mottled  red  complexion,  a  nose  just  so  indefinite,  a 
mouth  that  lacked  only  certain  ominous  yellow  stains 
to  repeat  the  paternal  feature,  and  eyes  of  that  blank 
and  amazing  blue  that  awed  naughty  boys,  peeping  over 
a  stupendous  shirt-collar  in  the  deacou-seat  every  Sun 
day.  But  outside  the  resemblance  stopped ;  for  that 
baby,  like  its  mother,  always  laughed ;  from  a  broad 
grin  to  a  sputtering  chuckle  it  progressed,  slowly  and 


342  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

surely,  till  it  was  time  for  it  to  be  baptized.  "  Six 
months  old  !  "exclaimed  Mrs.  Little,  at  sewing-society, 
"  and  not  yet  presented  for  baptism  !  "  That  was  one 
of  Deacon  Sparks's  crotchets  ;  he  was  a  good  man,  and 
somewhere,  a  great  way  down  behind  his  ribs,  lie  had  a 
kind  heart ;  but  it  was  overlaid  with  so  much  work, 
and  caution,  and  prejudice,  and  starch,  that  it  beat 
ver}'  feebly,  almost  invisibly,  even  to  the  angel  that  is 
supposed  to  look  after  such  institutions  in  every  man, 
specially  deacons. 

If  Deacon  Sparks  had  one  horror  above  another,  it 
was  of  babies,  particularly  in  church,  most  particularly 
when  they  cried  and  made  a  disturbance  at  their  baptism, 
—  a  thing  he  believed  to  be  effected  by  a  special  inter 
position  of  Satan  ;  and  from  the  hour  his  baby  was  born 
he  had  looked  forward  with  dreadful  doubts  to  this  cri 
sis,  resolving  that  his  child  at  least  should  be  old  enough 
to  obey  before  it  was  risked  in  an  ecclesiastical  public  ; 
doubly  resolved  that  it  should  have  a  Bible  name,  in 
spite  of  Mrs.  Sparks's  desire  that  the  boy  should  be 
called  by  her  family  name  ;  but,  positive  as  the  deacon 
was,  Mrs.  Sparks  only  laughed. 

"  I  don't  care  no  gret  what  you  dew  call  him,  Betsey, 
so's'ts  out  o'  Scriptur',"  relented  the  deacon,  "  I  guess 
it's  jest  as  good  not  ter  call  him  Cain,  'cause  likely 
he'd  feel  as  though  he  didn't  want  ter  hev  jest  that 
callin' ;  but  you  ken  call  him  anything  else  you're 
will  in'." 

"  Well,  I  do'no',  husband,"  responded  Aunty  Sparks. 
"  I  haint  no  great  admiration  for  Timothy,  nor  Reuel, 
nor  Nahum  ;  them  was  all  our  folks's  names,  too.  Let's 
open  the  Bible  kinder  easy,  and  call  him  the  first  name 
we  see." 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  343 

So  the  trial  by  lot  was  agreed  on,  and  the  fatal  proper 
name  was  Aceldama. 

Mrs.  Sparks  and  her  husband  were  rather  pleased 
than  dismayed  at  this.  The  name  was,  so  to  speak,  an 
unclaimed  grant,  and  they  the  first  settlers  on  it ;  be 
sides,  it  afforded  such  unprecedented  advantages  for 
nicknames,  so  many  syllables,  such  natural  diminutives, 
and  then  it  began  with  the  first  letter  of  the  alphabet. 

So  the  day  of  baptism  came,  —  a  bright,  mild  Thanks 
giving  morning, — and  Master  Sparks  was  arrayed  in 
gorgeous  attire  for  the  occasion  ;  a  long  dress,  em 
broidered  surprisingly  with  little  holes  and  big  holes, 
small  dots  and  large  dots,  impossible  leaves  with  a 
great  development  of  veins,  and  tendrils  that  spiralled 
the  wrong  way  and  executed  bow-knots  on  this  occasion 
only,  —  all  fenced  in  with  insane  scallops,  that  branched, 
and  sidled,  and  crooked  perseveringly,  but  did  their 
duty,  after  all. 

Over  this  reposed  a  long  and  full  yellow  cloak,  bound 
with  pink  ribbon,  refreshingly  suggestive  of  dandelion- 
blossoms,  while  above  the  stiff  lace  frill  that  inclosed 
the  beaming  red  visage  of  this  "tender youth  "  towered 
a  blue  silk  construction  of  the  pagoda  style,  popularly 
supposed  to  be  a  puerile  cap. 

Who  shall  describe  the  trig,  prim,  and  withal  sheep 
ish,  expression  of  Ebenezer  Sparks  as  he  squeaked  up 
the  aisle  in  advance  of  this  wonderfully  got-up  baby  ? 
No  amount  of  stationery  would  suffice.  It  was  like 
unto  no  mortal  creature  but  himself,  and  was  produced 
by  an  unlimited  quantity  of  collar,  flour-starch,  sole- 
leather,  paternal  pride,  arid  intense  conservatism ;  for 
it  was  the  ruling  passion  of  Deacon  Sparks  to  preserve 
things  as  they  had  been. 


344  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

Even  now,  in  this  crowning  ceremony,  his  soul  was 
troubled  with  the  novelty  of  having  a  baby  to  baptize, 
and  his  hair  stood  on  end  more  pertinaciously  than 
ever,  over  a  yet  redder  face,  and  the  dead  blueness  of 
his  eyes  caused  Timothy  Little,  the  pastor's  graceless 
son,  a  nine-year  sinner,  to  quake  and  quiver  in  his 
pew  corner,  self-conscious  of  sundry  apples  hooked 
from  Deacon  Sparks's  tree  of  russet-sweets  but  a  few 
weeks  ago 

Poor  Timothy  !  the  deacon  personified  his  conscience, 
for  that  officer  of  the  church  was  thinking  of  nothing 
else  but  his  baby.  Clothed  in  garments  of  blue  broad 
cloth  set  off  by  brass  buttons,  followed  by  Mrs.  Sparks 
in  a  dress  we  dare  not  venture  to  describe,  the  deacon 
and  his  baby  presented  themselves  before  Mr.  Little,  a 
meek,  sentimental,  florid  man,  with  a  big  head  and  a 
weak  voice,  and  of  the  straitest  sect,  an  Old-School 
man.  Dear  reader,  unlearned  as  yet  in  the  variations 
of  style  and  title,  ask  not  rashly  what  an  Old-School 
man  means.  Plunge  not  headlong  into  the  sea  of 
metaphysics  and  terminology  that  these  hard-headed 
Yankees  call  theology.  Leave  the  scientific  Greek  and 
Latin  names  of  these  unknown  trees  and  shrubs  to  those 
who  gave  and  use  them  ;  look  and  see  what  fruit  hangs 
on  the  gracious  boughs  ;  which  spreads  widest  shelter 
for  the  lame,  and  the  weak,  and  the  evil-smitten  race 
of  men  ;  to  which  the  birds  of  heaven  fly  with  glad 
dest  instinct  and  purest  song  ;  where  flowers  are  sweet 
est  and  fruit  most  abundant  and  nutritive  :  that  tree 
is  one  out  of  Paradise,  whatever  name  labels  or  libels 
it ;  and  it  is  good  to  thank  God  for  it,  and  fashion 
one's  own  growth  after  its  pattern.  But  Deacon 
Sparks  is  holding  his  baby  all  this  time. 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  345 

The  ceremony  began.  The  deacon  held  Aceldama 
with  a  tight  grip ;  but,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  the 
trembling  cap  on  top  of  the  child's  head  toppled  for 
ward  and  extinguished  those  staring  eyes,  into  one  of 
which,  in  his  awkward  attempts  to  replace  the  structure, 
Deacon  Sparks  thrust  his  huge,  horny  finger. 

Poor,  dear  Aceldama  !  What  a  roar  and  yell  was  that 
which  pierced  his  father's  ears,  and  made  the  old  meet 
ing-house  ring  again  !  No  efforts  could  quiet  the  war- 
cry  of  the  half-gouged  baby,  and  the  ceremony  pro 
ceeded  in  a  din  likest  to  nothing  ecclesiastical  but  the 
exorcising  of  a  bad  spirit. 

Deacon  Sparks  was  furious.  He  held  the  shrieking 
infant  with  fingers  that  left  their  sign-manual  upon 
flesh  and  skin  ;  and  when  Mr.  Little,  with  a  preter 
natural  exalting  of  the  voice  that  made  him  more  than 
ever  florid,  at  length  struggled  through  the  baptism 
and  bestowed  the  strange  name  Aceldama  upon  a 
decent  Yankee  child,  Deacon  Sparks,  without  waiting 
for  the  prayer,  shouldered  his  baby,  marched  out  of 
the  meeting-house  in  double-quick  time,  followed  by 
his  wife  at  a  rapid,  scuttling  trot,  and  having  arrived 
at  the  porch  deliberately  sat  down,  and,  lowering  the 
infant,  administered  to  it  a  severe  personal  castigation  ; 
while  Mrs.  Sparks,  recovering  breath  behind  him,  only 
laughed,  well  knowing  what  layers  upon  layers  of  linen, 
flannel,  cambric,  and  merino  rendered  her  precious 
boy's  person  impervious  to  slaps. 

It  seemed,  from  that  hour  forward,  as  if  some  unruly 
spirit  had  entered  into  Aceldama  with  his  name. 
Instead  of  lying  still  in  the  old  cradle,  like  an  orthodox 
baby,  he  was  always  scrambling  up  on  end  therein,  and 
peeking  over  the  side.  He  behaved  like  some  tricksy 


346  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

elf,  uttering  his  most  pertinacious  screeches  in  time  of 
family  prayer,  and  distorting  his  visage  at  poor  Mr. 
Little  into  such  curiously  ugly  shapes,  as  daunted  the 
feeble  divine  from  any  caressing  approaches  whatever. 

"When  the  child  began  to  creep,  dire  conflicts  ensued 
in  the  peaceful  kitchen  of  Mrs.  Sparks.  He  seemed  to 
have  a  natural  proclivit\T  for  tubs  of  scalding  suds,  hot 
flat-irons,  ley-kettles,  and  old  cats.  Once  he  sat  down 
in  a  kettle  of  hasty-pudding,  just  off  the  boil,  and  noth 
ing  but  an  instantaneous  grip  of  the  maternal  red 
right  hand  and  triple  folds  of  domestic  flannel  saved 
him  from  an  untimely  end.  Twice  he  entered  into 
single  combat  with  the  old  tabbj-  on  account  of  her 
kittens  (which  he  liked  to  carry  by  the  tail),  and  came 
off  both  times  with  honorable  scars  in  the  face.  Once 
he  pulled  the  wooden  churn  over,  and  deluged  himself 
and  the  spotless  floor  with  thick  cream,  besides  bump 
ing  his  nose  till  it  bled.  Once  he  narrowly  escaped 
death  from  eating  potash  ;  and  three  times  his  red 
flannel  frock  was  patched  over  holes  he  burned  in  it  by 
cultivating  an  intimacy  with  the  fore-log,  for  the  sake 
of  its  sweet  and  smoky  drip  of  sap. 

Nor  were  matters  composed  at  all  when  Master 
Sparks,  having  survived  his  first  infancy  by  dint  of  a 
certain  elder-witch  element  in  his  nature  that  always 
brought  him  off  "•  right  side  up  "  from  any  danger, 
emerged  into  a  full  suit  of  butternut  cloth,  trousers  and 
all,  thickly  buttoned  with  brass. 

The  wildest  colt  in  the  deacon's  pasture  he  coaxed 
into  a  near  approach  with  tempting  handfuls  of  oats 
and  apples,  and  then,  bestriding  the  creature,  with  his 
dumpy  legs  almost  horizontal  across  its  back,  and 
clinging  on  to  its  inane  like  a  monkey,  Aceldama 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  347 

careered  full  tilt  about  the  meadow  till  he  was  speedily 
thrown  over  the  colt's  head,  luckily  for  him,  into  a 
soft  and  swampy  spot  full  of  flag  and  coarse  grass,  from 
which  he  crept  out  slightly  subdued  and  very  wet. 

Nothing  daunted  by  this,  the  next  morning  he  re 
sumed  his  equestrian  feats  by  striding  the  old  black 
cow,  very  unexpectedly  to  that  respectable  animal, 
causing  her  to  behave  in  a  manner  set  aside  since  her 
calfish  days,  —  a  sudden  plunge  and  fling  of  the  tail,  a 
wonderfully  energetic  prance,  —  and  away  she  went 
down  the  high  road,  Aceldama  hanging  on  to  the  brass 
knobs  of  her  horns,  beating  her  ears  with  his  heels  till, 
out  of  breath,  his  grip  relaxed,  and  just  as  the  cow 
reentered  the  barnyard  he  dropped  off  into  the  deepest 
pool  therein,  adding  the  last  drop  to  Deacon  Sparks's 
righteous  indignation,  he  having  viewed  the  whole 
affair  from  the  upper  door  of  the  barn. 

That  night  'Celd}'  got  his  deserts  after  true  Solomonic 
prescription,  and  went  to  bed  very  rueful  indeed,  but 
not  quite  penitent;  for  two  days  after,  capturing  the 
biggest  rooster  in  the  yard,  he  dressed  it  up  in  a  white 
cravat,  tied  after  the  strictest  clerical  fashion,  and 
turned  it  loose  upon  astonished  Mr.  Little,  just  emerg 
ing  from  the  door  after  a  pastoral  visit. 

In  fact,  though  Aceldama  was  drilled  morning,  noon, 
and  night  in  the  Assembly's  Catechism,  till  a  profound 
disgust  for  that  ancient  institution  was  thoroughly  im 
planted  in  his  mind  ;  though  he  was  kept  in  a  straight- 
backed  chair,  and  forbidden  to  laugh  or  look  out  of  the 
window  all  day  Sundays ;  though  his  father  treated 
him  with  the  severest  justice  and  his  mother  with  the 
mildest  mercy  (popularly  called  indulgence),  Aceldama 
offered  every  prospect  of  becoming  the  wildest  boy  in 


348  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

Hanover,  and  the  soul  of  Deacon  Sparks  groaned  within 
him. 

At  school  nobody  did  or  dared  half  the  pranks  that 
he  amused  himself  with.  At  the  academy  no  other 
boy  could  compete  with  him  in  tormenting  the  master, 
kissing  the  prettiest  little  girls,  tying  up  the  bell-rope 
out  of  reach,  plugging  the  logs  destined  for  the  fire 
with  tiny  charges  of  powder,  and  filling  the  key-holes 
with  divers  sticky  mixtures  that  cost  an  hour's  delay  of 
school  in  the  effort  to  extract  them. 

It  is  true  'Celdy  learned  his  lessons  irreproachably. 
In  class  he  never  vexed  his  master  by  being  stupid  or 
perverse.  He  was  no  fool,  nor  yet  a  knave,  though 
the  latter  trait  predominated,  for  he  was  mischievous 
and  acute.  His  faults  were  the  faults  of  vivid  animal 
spirits  and  pure  courage.  No  little  boy,  no  coward, 
no  sweet-tempered  and  forgiving  comrade,  owed  Acel 
dama  a  grudge,  or  received  from  him  a  blow.  The  big 
boys,  who  bullied  all  the  rest,  the  savage  and  brutal 
natures  that  will  crop  out  in  every  crowd  of  boys  as 
well  as  men,  —  all  these  he  fought,  and  cowed,  and 
ruled,  with  the  generous  bravery  of  a  thoroughly  fine 
temper  and  noble  disposition. 

But  all  this  availed  him  nothing  with  his  father. 
Night  and  day  Deacon  Sparks  lamented  over  the  boy, 
not  merely  as  a  torment  and  tease  at  home,  but  as  a 
branch  and  offspring  of  Satan,  —  a  child  evidently 
formed  for  and  bent  on  eternal  misery  ;  in  short,  a 
reprobate. 

The  stern  Calvinism  of  the  deacon's  creed  would 
have  allowed  him  no  hope  of  'Celdy 's  salvation  had  lie 
died  in  his  first  innocent  babyhood.  He  would  have 
resigned  himself  to  the  justice,  as  he  called  it,  of  God. 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  349 

His  mercy  was  mythical  to  the  deacon.  Judge,  then, 
what  a  state  of  mind  this  really  sincere  father  was  in 
when,  to  the  certainty  of  original  sin  and  total  deprav 
ity,  'Celdy  had  added  such  a  muster-roll  of  actual  trans 
gressions  ! 

Truth  to  tell,  Deacon  Sparks's  faith  and  practice  were 
not  of  a  kind  to  attract  the  fresh  and  sensitive  heart 
of  youth  ;  not  that  outgrowth  of  the  loviug  soul  that 
draws  itself  into  the  souls  of  its  brethren  on  the  plea 
of  a  common  father  and  a  yearning  fraternal  tender 
ness  for  all  its  kind  ;  not  that  self-forgetting,  tender, 
gentle  charit}r  that  lives  in  the  wants  and  woes  of 
others,  and  bears  their  burdens  as  the  Master  did, 
glorifying  the  daily  routine  of  life  with  love,  and  praise, 
and  cheerfulness.  Exceedingly  set  in  his  way,  for  no 
better  reason  than  that  it  was  the  old  way  of  his  fathers, 
he  believed  in  the  Law,  and  only  tolerated  the  Gospel. 
His  strictness  was  so  purely  honest  and  earnest  as  to 
demand  respect  from  any  candid  mind ;  but  it  was, 
nevertheless,  a  strictness  of  the  letter  from  which  the 
spirit  fled  away  deprecatingly,  and  which  bound  upon 
him  and  his  a  grievous  yoke  that  Aceldama  found  im 
possible  to  be  borne. 

As  the  boy  grew  older  the  deacon's  rule  grew  more 
stringent,  and  he  fretted  and  galled  beneath  it,  and 
but  for  his  mother  might  have  ended  his  days,  as  many 
a  wild  boy  with  a  strict  father  has  done  before,  in  the 
noisome  hold  of  a  whaler  or  the  barrack  hospital  of  an 
army ;  but  Aunty  Sparks  was  certainly  especially 
oidained  to  be  the  deacon's  better  half. 

No  heroine  of  novel  or  story  was  this  honest,  good- 
tempered,  cheerful,  steady,  healthy  woman.  A  dozen 
Matilda-Marias  might  have  been  made  physically  out 


350  THE  SI' III  NX'S   CHILDREN. 

of  her  goodly  proportions,  and  forty  from  her  mind 
and  heart.  Not  a  particle  of  sentimentality  tinged  her 
nature.  She  neither  screamed  nor  shrunk  at  a  hop 
toad,  or  fainted  when  Aceldama  chopped  his  foot  half 
off  or  was  thrown  over  the  pony's  neck  and  taken  up 
for  dead.  She  never  cried  all  night  over  her  own 
troubles  or  anybody's  else,  but  took  her  natural  rest 
like  a  common-sense  woman,  and  got  up  in  the  morn 
ing  ready  to  do  her  duty,  with  bright  e}7es  and  a  hearty 
laugh. 

The  sick  people  in  Hanover  thought  "Miss  Sparks 
beat  the  doctor  ;  "  the  poor  believed  her  bread-tray  and 
pie-shelf  never  could  be  emptied  ;  the  deacon  consulted 
her  on  all  emergencies,  grimly  scorned  her  advice 
when  given,  and  always  took  it.  Aceldama  loved  her 
as  a  dandelion  loves  sunshine  or  a  bobolink  singing. 

Heaven  bless  Aunty  Sparks  !  If  there  were  a  hun 
dred  like  her  where  there  is  one  slightly  resembling 
that  type  of  woman,  the  world  would  be  saved  from 
half  its  evils  and  all-its  Women's  Rights  Conventions. 

And  under  these  conflicting  influences  'Celdy  grew 
up  to  be  fourteen.  At  that  time  another  person  began 
to  bend  him.  Mr.  Samuel  Fletcher  came  to  Hanover 
to  keep  the  Academy,  and  Master  Sparks  found  his 
master. 

There  was  nothing  very  subduing,  either,  in  the 
aspect  of  Mr.  Fletcher :  spare,  tall,  shabbj?,  with  a  face 
that  might  be  the  index  of  extreme  youth  or  maturity, 
so  supra-temporal  —  to  coin  a  phrase  —  was  the  inner 
fire  that  used  that  wan,  hectic  visage,  that  keen  outline, 
and  wonderful  azure  eye  for  its  mask  and  servant. 

Aceldama  came  home  the  first  morning  and  told  his 
mother,  in  confidence,  that  the  new  master  "  wasn't 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  351 

much ; "  at  night  he  came  back  and  said  he  was  mis 
taken  ;  and  before  the  first  quarter  was  out  Master 
'Celdy  would  have  walked  up  to  a  cannon's  mouth  and 
put  his  head  therein  at  Mr.  Fletcher's  request. 

No  man  attains  that  personal  ascendency  over  boys 
without  good  reason  in  himself.  Girls  adore  anybody 
they  happen  to  fancy,  as  nine-tenths  of  their  marriages 
and  ten-tenths  of  their  friendships  show ;  but  the 
besoin  d' aimer  is  not  so  potent  with  the  stronger  sex  ; 
they  must  know  the  reason  why,  and  feel  it,  before 
they  submit  to  it.  Mr.  Fletcher  was  one  of  those  rare 
natures  whose  special  gift  is  a  vast  power  over  others, 
—  a  character  difficult  to  analyze,  only  to  be  explained 
by  classing  it  under  the  all-sufficing  head,  genius. 

He  was  an  extraordinary  teacher,  of  course.  Under 
his  direction  his  scholars'  minds  expanded  and  absorbed 
knowledge,  as  vegetation  is  said  to  thrive  in  certain  gases. 
No  dull  boys  were  to  be  found  in  Hanover  Academy 
under  his  sway.  His  acute  and  vivid  intellect  seemed 
to  transpierce  whatever  it  would,  and  transfuse  it  with 
its  own  light  and  power  for  the  time  being.  School 
became  a  pleasure  and  an  excitement ;  and  Aceldama, 
being  the  smartest  boy  there  by  gift  of  nature,  propor 
tionately  grew  and  flourished  in  the  new  dispensation, 
and  added  to  his  increased  knowledge  a  most  absorbing 
and  devoted  attachment  for  Mr.  Fletcher. 

But  after  some  weeks  rumors  of  a  startling  nature 
came  to  Deacon  Sparks's  ears ;  somebody  told  some 
body  else  that  some  third  body  had  said  the  new 
master  was  a  New-School  man  in  theology,  and,  on 
investigating  the  matter,  the  deacon  became  more  and 
more  convinced  of  the  fact. 

Now  Mr.  Fletcher  was  as  earnest  in  religion  as  he 


352  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

was  in  teaching.  The  boys  and  girls  of  Hanover 
Academy  could  not  listen  to  his  morning  prayers  and 
readings  without  profound  convictions  that,  whatever 
they  might  think  about  it,  the  Bible,  and  God,  and 
Goodness,  and  Sin,  were  deep  and  living  realities  to 
their  eloquent  muster ;  and  gradually,  at  first  by  mere 
sympathy,  then  as  the  safer  result  of  thought  and 
stud}7,  a  religious  interest  sprung  up  and  made  steady 
progress  throughout  the  school. 

Deacon  Sparks  groaned.  He  could  not  have  his 
only  son  a  New-School  man  ;  that  would  be  the  final 
drop  in  the  cup  ! 

He  sat  thinking  the  matter  over  one  night  by  the 
kitchen  fire,  Aceldama  having  retreated  to  his  own 
room  overhead,  where,  —  truth  to  tell, — instead  of 
studying,  he,  too,  was  meditating,  with  his  head  on  his 
hands,  as  boys  will  meditate  for  whom  the  great 
problems  of  Life  and  Nature  just  begin  to  show  their 
colossal  outlines  and  stir  their  mighty  forces. 

"  Miss  Sparks,"  uttered  the  deacon,  after  sundry 
stifled  grunts  and  uneasy  creaks  of  his  old  chair,  "  I'm 
a-goin'  to  take  Aceldamy  out  of  the  'Cademy." 

"  Why,  husband,  you  do  beat  all !     What  for,  eh  ?  " 

"Well,  I  aint  satisfied  with  that  Fletcher;  he  aint 
right ;  he  ai — nt  right !  "  musingly  retorted  Deacon 
Sparks. 

"  What  on  'arth's  the  matter  of  him?  "  said  aunty, 
dropping  a  stitch  in  her  blue  yarn  knitting  from  pure 
astonishment,  for  Mr.  Fletcher  had  got  at  her  heart 
through  'Celdy's. 

"  Well,  I've  heerd,  and  I  expect  it's  true,  that  he's 
a  New-School  man,  —  ralely  and  ondeuiably  a  New- 
School  man." 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  353 

"  Sakes  alive!"  exclaimed  aunty,  with  one  of  her 
own  laughs;  "is  that  all,  husband?  I  thought  he'd 
turned  out  a  forger,  or  a  burglar,  or  somethin'  or  other 
orful  bad  : " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  call  bad,  Miss  Sparks,  if 
'taint  hetererdoxy ! " 

The  deacon  delivered  this  dictum  with  indescribable 
weight ;  it  was  evidently  intended  to  settle  the  thing  at 
once. 

"  He  !  he  !  he  !  "  furtively  choked  out  from  behind 
aunty's  checked  apron,  held  up  to  stifle  the  naughty 
laugh  in  its  bud.  "  It's  a  bad  word,  I'm  sure  ;  but  what 
harm  is  it,  husband?  " 

"  Harm  !  Why,  they  don't  believe  in  the  catechism, 
Miss  Sparks  !  And  they  don't  believe  in  total  depravity, 
nor  in  reprobation,  nor  in  infant  damnation,  nor  in  — 
well,  a  good  many  things." 

"Well,  husband,  the  Scriptur'  don't  say  them  is  need 
ful  to  salvation, does  it?  I  shouldn't  think  Mr.  Fletcher 
could  be  very  bad,  judgin'  from  his  prayers  that  he 
makes  to  conference  meetin's,  and  the  gentle  way  he 
gets  the  mastery  over  them  boys  by.  And,  you  know, 
the  Lord  didn't  make  us  all  jest  alike ;  some  on  us 
thinks  some  way,  and  some  another." 

"  Miss  Sparks,  I  tell  you  New-School  folks  is  all 
wrong ;  and  ef  I  thought 't  I  was  goin'  to  live  to  see 
Aceldamy  grownup  a  New-School  man,  I'd  ruther  he'd 
never  seen  the  inside  of  a  school'us  ;  and  ef  I  don't  stir 
up  the  school  committee  and  get  that  Fletcher  sent 
packin',  my  name  aint  Ebenezer  Sparks  !  " 

Aunt}'  recommenced  her  knitting,  knowing  that  words 
would  be  but  fuel  to  light  the  deacon's  rage  withal ; 
but  'Celdy,  overhead,  had  heard  the  whole  discourse, 


354  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

and  was  swelling  with  rage  and  grief ;  and  that  hour 
laid  the  first  stone  of  a  barrier  between  him  and  his 
father  that  long  years  could  not  break  down. 

Deacon  Sparks  was  true  to  his  intent ;  by  dint  of 
perseverance  and  orthodoxy  he  got  the  school  commit 
tee  to  dismiss  Mr.  Fletcher  ;  and  that  New-School  man, 
after  listening  to  a  farewell  address,  got  up  by  the  boys 
and  spoken  by  'Celdy,  —  who  made  it  most  expressive 
by  totally  breaking  down  in  the  middle,  — bid  good-by 
to  his  charge,  in  a  chorus  of  tears  and  sobs  from  the 
girls,  and  choking  adieus  and  sturdy  hand-shakings 
from  the  boys,  and  betook  himself  to  his  boarding-house 
to  pack  his  trunk ;  during  which  operation  a  timid 
knock  called  him  to  the  door,  there  to  find  Aceldama 
Sparks. 

"  Come  in, 'Celdy  ! "  kindly  said  Mr. Fletcher  ;  "come, 
sit  clown  in  that  chair,  where  you  won't  get  tangled  in 
my  things." 

He  had  too  much  tact  to  seem  surprised  at  the  boy's 
appearance,  or  his  utter  failure  to  speak  what  was  chok 
ing  in  his  throat.  So  'Celdy  sat  down  ;  and,  after  turn 
ing  bis  cap  round  and  round  a  dozen  times  in  his  hands, 
at  length  sputtered  out,  "  If  you  please,  sir,  can  I  go 
with  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Fletcher  laughed ;  not  a  derisive  or  altogether 
an  amused  laugh,  but  as  if  he  were  pleased,  and  sur 
prised,  and  doubtful, — all  three.  "Go  where,  my 
dear  boy  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Oh,  anywhere,  sir.  I  want  to  get  away  ;  I  want 
to  get  out  of  Hanover." 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Mr.  Fletcher,  flinging 
himself  into  an  arm-chair,  and  looking  'Celdy  in  the  face 
with  those  keen  eyes  that  seemed  to  read  one's  soul. 


ACELDAMA  SPARKS.  355 

"  Sir,  I  can't  stand  it !  I  can't  live  with  my  father ! 
I  cannot!"  'Celdy's  face  glowed  with  scarlet  indig 
nation. 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Mr.  Fletcher,  coolly,  both  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  his  eyes  fixed  now  on  the  wary  manoeuvres 
of  a  spider  overhead  ;  "  how  has  he  tried  to  kill  you? 

—  poison,  or  bludgeons,  or  the  old  musket?" 

'Celdy  moved  uneasily  on  his  seat,  blushed  deeper 
yet,  and  at  length  stammered  out,  "Why,  Mr.  Fletcher, 
he  hasn't  tried  to  kill  me,  of  course." 

A  line,  fine  as  the  spider's  thread,  quivered  about 
Mr.  Fletcher's  mouth  and  was  still  again. 

"But  I  thought  you  said  you  couldn't  live  with  him?" 
gravely  interrogated  he. 

"Well,  sir,  I  can't;  I'm  miserable.  He  talks  so, 
he  makes  me  so  angry  ;  he  says  such  things  about"  — 

"  Stop  there,  my  boy !  You  have  no  right  to  tell  me 
what  your  father  says  about  anybody.  And  as  for  you 

—  look  here  ! "     Mr.  Fletcher  pulled  from  the  top  of 
his  trunk  a  little  book,  thin,  and  cheaply  bound  ;  and, 
with  his  peculiar,  expressive  voice,  read  aloud  one  pas 
sage  from  the  wisest  and  best  of  all  books,  — the  book 
among  men's  works,  — Thomas  a  Kempis's  "  Imitation 
of  Christ":  — 

It  is  no  great  matter  to  associate  with  the  good  and  gentle ; 
for  this  is  naturally  pleasing  to  all,  and  every  one  willingly  en- 
joyeth  peace,  and  loveth  those  best  that  agree  with  him.  But  to 
be  able  to  live  peaceably  with  hard  and  perverse  persons,  or 
with  the  disorderly,  or  such  as  go  contrary  to  us,  is  a  great  grace, 
and  a  most  commendable  and  manly  thing. 

'Celdy's  head  drooped. 

' '  Nothing  gives  you  any  right  to  leave  your  father, 


356  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

my  boy,  even  if  he  treated  you  far  worse  than  he  does  ; 
neither  God's  law  nor  man's  permits  it.  You  have 
hoped  lately  that  you  began  a  new  life  ;  and  here  is 
your  place  to  test  it.  If  you  are  in  earnest  the  trial 
of  your  sincerity  is  here,  and  will  strengthen  it ;  if  you 
are  half-way,  lingering,  undecided,  you  will  fail  and 
fall.  God  knew  your  need,  and  he  arranged  your  life. 
Dare  you  run  away  from  it?  Don't  be  a  coward." 

'Celdy's  face  flushed,  and  his  head  rose. 

"  That's  right!  you  have  a  right  to  be  indignant  at 
the  idea  ;  only  be  indignant,  too,  at  the  thing  ;  for  it  is 
as  cowardly  to  run  away  from  duty  as  to  run  away 
from  a  battle  ;  and  it  never  helped  any  living  soul  out 
of  trouble,  but  rather  into  it,  to  run  away  from  one's 
post.  Besides,  your  father  is  a  good  man,  and  one 
whom  I  respect  truly.  He  has  his  own  ideas,  and  he 
has  strong  prejudices, — strong  natures  often  have. 
Isn't  it  enough  of  an  object  for  your  life  to  try  and  live 
down  those  prejudices,  —  try  and  show  him  that  religion 
is  a  life  of  duty  rather  than  of  doctrines?  Can't  you 
do  a  noble  service  for  your  Master  just  here,  and  one 
that  the  world  needs  as  much  as  this  one  man  ?  '  Do  the 
duty  that  lies  nearest  thee  ;  all  the  rest  will  follow.'  " 

'Celdy's  eye  kindled.     "  I'll  try,  sir." 

"  I  believe  you  will,"  said  Mr.  Fletcher.  "  And  one 
thing  more :  if  you  want  to  be  free  of  the  world's 
bonds  don't  be  troubled  by  what  anybody  says  of  any 
body  else  or  of  you  ;  if  what  they  say  is  true,  they 
have  a  right  to  say  it ;  if  it  is  a  lie,  it  is  a  lie  then,  and 
neither  mars  nor  shames  any  but  the  teller.  The  worst 
slavery  in  life  is  slavery  to  what  '  they  sa3'.'  If  you 
want  to  be  bound  and  tortured  you  can  try  the  experi 
ment,  but  you  will  repent  it." 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  357 

'Celdy  got  up  from  his  chair  with  a  glowing  face, 
full  of  new  resolution.  Mr.  Fletcher  smiled,  half 
sadly,  to  see  that  look.  He  knew  what  lay  before  the 
boy,  —  what  days  of  futile  endeaA^or,  of  lapses  and  re 
coveries,  of  sinking  heart  and  struggling  hope  ;  for  he, 
too,  had  lived  under  bondage,  and  cherished  a  Christian 
life  in  the  clefts  of  the  rock,  as  it  were,  till  the  strong 
tree  had  wound  its  roots  firmly  into  every  crevice,  and 
now  stood  stately  and  fair. 

"  Only  never  be  discouraged,"  said  he,  laying  his 
hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder.  "  Remember  that  not 
one  fall,  nor  forty,  discourages  the  child  learning  to 
walk  —  why  should  it  the  Christian?  Distrust 
yourself,  but  not  God ;  for  what  does  St.  Augustine 
say? — '  He  is  patient,  because  he  is  eternal.'  And 
here,  my  boy,  is  a  Bible  for  you,  with  these  same 
passages  I  read  you  written  on  its  blank  leaf.  I  was 
going  to  carry  it  to  you  myself.  I  shall  come  and  say 
good-by  to  your  father  in  the  morning.  Shall  I  see 
you?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  'Celdy,  choking  as  he  spoke,  and 
hurrying  out  of  the  door  without  one  word  of  thanks. 
But  his  master  was  already  thanked. 

Mr.  Fletcher  did  call  in  the  morning  to  see  Deacon 
Sparks.  'Celdy  sat  demurely  in  the  kitchen  corner, 
with  his  eyes  shining  and  his  lips  apart,  to  drink  in 
every  word.  Mr.  Fletcher  was  as  kindly  and  as  genial 
to  the  hard  old  man  as  to  his  best  boys  in  school. 
Nothing  was  said  about  the  deacon's  agency  in  dis 
missing  him,  even  in  the  way  of  distant  allusion  ;  and 
those  blank  blue  eyes  seemed  to  stare  wider  than  ever 
at  the  unmistakable  kindliness  of  the  young  man's 
manner.  Now  if  Mr.  Fletcher  had  gone  away,  as  the 


358  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

vernacular  of  Hanover  hath  it,  "  in  a  huff,"  and  never 
come  near  Deacon  Sparks,  or  if  he  had  "  improved  the 
occasion"  of  his  farewell  ctill  to  rebuke  the  deacon 
for  his  interference,  and  then  magnanimously  forgiven 
him,  the  carnal  man,  who  still  sneaked  about  the 
premises  of  the  deacon's  heart,  would  have  become  at 
once  a  pugnacious  animal,  and  called  itself  righteous 
indignation,  or  a  martyr  to  duty ;  but  now,  overawed 
by  a  phenomenon  rarely  visible  in  more  extended 
parishes  than  that  of  Hanover,  —  the  thorough  Christian 
courtesy  of  a  Christian  gentleman,  —  the  said  carnal 
slunk  into  obscurity,  and  the  deacon's  conscience 
spoke  a  good  word  for  the  school-master,  like  an  honest 
conscience  as  it  was,  though  generally  rather  stinted 
and  starved. 

"I  hope  you've  found  another  school,  sir?"  said 
Deacon  Sparks,  with  an  accent  of  real  interest. 

"  Why,  no,  sir,"  answered  Mr.  Fletcher,  the  least 
bit  of  fun  glinting  in  his  eye.  "  I  have  never  intended 
to  teach  anywhere  after  this  time.  I  am  about  to 

enter  the Theological  Seminary,  as  I  wished  to 

last  year,  but  found  my  funds  did  not  quite  hold  out." 

Deacon  Sparks's  countenance  fell  in  spite  of  himself. 
He  had  had  his  labor  for  his  pains,  literally.  'Celdy's 
face  sparkled  ;  his  secret  soul  exulted.  I  regret  to  say 
the  boy  triumphed  in  his  father's  discomfiture.  Strange, 
hard,  unnatural  position !  Where  there  should  have 
been  confidence  and  sympathy,  only  this  perpetual 
antagonism,  this  utter  want  of  tenderness,  this  repul 
sion  between  old  and  new ;  as  if  the  new  were  not 
always  an  outgrowth  of  the  old, —  no  fresh  creation  of 
God,  but  the  spring  sprouting  of  the  old  stock,  the  re 
sult  of  air  and  light  and  warmth  upon  a  long-delayed 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  359 

and  chilled  embryo.  But  no  such  light  dawned  on 
Deacon  Sparks  ;  no  such  breadth  of  perception  as  yet 
illuminated  'Celdy.  The  deacon's  hair  bristled  with 
horror  at  the  idea  of  novelty.  The  Gospel  was  an  old 
and  fixed  fact  to  him,  divisible  into  so  many  doctrines  ; 
cribbed  up  to  fifty-two  days  in  the  year.  Works  were 
a  legality  for  six  days  in  the  week,  and  a  strict,  stony 
necessity  on  the  seventh.  Six  days  he  ground  the 
faces  of  the  poor,  snarled  and  snapped  at  his  wife, 
looked  like  a  Yankee  Gorgon  at  every  child  that  he 
passed,  overworked  his  horses,  and  underfed  his  hired 
man.  The  seventh  day  he  held  his  tongue  and  read  the 
Old  Testament  in  the  house,  or  went  to  church  and 
sung  psalms  with  much  fervor  and  no  tune.  Yet  for 
all  this  the  deacon  had  his  good  traits,  both  gracious 
and  natural.  He  was  honest  in  letter  and  spirit ; 
earnest  as  a  child  in  what  he  believed  ;  working  right 
eousness  and  fearing  God.  Shall  man  say  that  the 
loving  Christ,  who  bears  through  all  these  ages  the 
burden  of  earth's  sin  and  anguish,  had  not  a  tender 
care  for  this  old  man,  who  had  not  so  learned  him  ?  Did 
not  those  eyes,  that  looked  into  the  heart  of  publican 
and  sinner  with  never-failing  pity,  pierce  also  the  crust 
of  this  groping  life,  and  behold,  with  compassionate 
affection,  its  truth  and  its  earnestness?  "Judge  not, 
that  ye  be  not  judged." 

Now  when  Mr.  Fletcher  made  this  little  disclosure, 
that  discomfited  the  deacon  and  delighted  'Celdy,  Aunty 
Sparks  laughed.  If  anybody  else  had  laughed  there 
would  have  been  some  warm  words  forthcoming  from 
the  conscious  deacon.  But  nobody  minded  aunty. 
She  always  laughed ;  not  specially  because  things  were 
amusing,  or  because  she  was  particularly  pleased,  but 


360  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

out  of  her  overflowing  good-will,  and  the  good  time 
she  always  had,  living  and  loving.  Just  as  a  bobo 
link,  filled  with  June  scents  and  glory,  can't  possibly 
wait  a  minute,  but  lights  on  the  fh'st  thing  at  hand, 
and  bubbles  over  with  singing  and  fun  ;  not  because  it 
is  a  cavatina  or  a  bravura  from  any  opera,  and  he  knows 
exactly  how  it  ought  to  be  sung,  with  La  Grange's  trills 
and  Gazzaniga's  expression  ;  nor  because  it  is  an  ex 
quisite  day,  and  deserves  a  musical  interpretation  of 
its  splendor  and  verdure  and  perfume ;  but  simply 
because  he-can't-help-it-and-he- don't  want-to-and-he- 
don't-know-why-aud-  he-don't-care-  and-nobody-knows- 
and-he-  must-  sing-sing-sing-and-  bubble-  over  -whether- 
or-no ! 

Just  so  aunty  laughed,  and  said,  in  the  inter 
ludes  :  — 

"  Why,  dew  tell,  Mr.  Fletcher,  if  you're  a-goin'  into 
the  ministry ! " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  I  am,"  returned  that  gentleman,  with 
a  mixture  of  reverence  and  joy  that  was  delicately  de 
fined  to  a  quick  ear,  and  one  quick  ear  received  it. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  on't,"  replied  aunty,  no  way 
daunted  by  the  ominous  rigidity  that  Old  School  drew 
over  her  husband's  face.  "  There's  so  many  poor 
sticks  in  the  ministry  I  always  feel  as  though  'twas  a 
partic'lar  providence  when  a  smart  man  takes  to 
preachin'.  Folks  always  think  anybody's  good  enough 
to  make  a  minister  of,  or  a  missionary,  an'  'taint  so. 
I  think  thej-'d  come  a  sight  nearer  facts  ef  they'd  think 
nobody's  good  enough  ;  for  I'm  sure  skerce  anybody 
is." 

"  That  is  true,''  said  Mr.  Fletcher  ;  and  he  was  about 
to  add  that  .we  might  take  a  lesson  therein  from  the 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  361 

Romish  Church,  that  culls  her  ministers  from  men  of 
physical  perfection  and  mental  power,  and  thereby 
carries  half  her  wide-spread  influence  ;  but  Mr.  Fletcher 
remembered  Deacon  Sparks' s  prejudices,  and  with 
fraternal  charity  spared  them,  for  he  went  on:  "I 
think  we  should  oftener  remember  the  answer  of  David 
to  Araunah  :  '  Shall  I  offer  to  the  Lord  God  that  which 
cost  me  nothing?  ' ' 

Deacon  Sparks's  visage  relaxed.  He  liked  the  Old 
Testament.  The  Jews  and  their  observances  interested 
a  certain  natural  formalism  in  his  character  ;  while  for 
want  of  living  the  Gospel  he  had  not  yet  come  to  loving 
it,  nor  did  he  suspect  the  delicate  apprehension  of,  and 
regard  for,  this  very  trait  that  had  prompted  Mr. 
Fletcher's  quotation.  Strange  it  is  that  we  so  often 
hear  a  man  accused,  as  of  a  fault,  of  "  being  all  things 
to  all  men,"  when  the  most  fervent  of  all  apostles,  the 
one  least  fitted  by  birth  or  training  to  conciliate  or 
concede,  uses  it  as  a  triumphant  assertion  of  his  pure 
zeal  and  ardent  endeavor  that  he  is  ' '  made  all  things 
to  all  men,  that  I  might  by  all  means  save  some." 

And  Mr.  Fletcher  knew  when  to  go.  He  knew  that 
a  further  discussion  of  his  future  work  would  only  lead 
to  some  stumbling-block  of  doctrine  or  theological 
nettle-bed  for  the  deacon.  So  he  shook  hands  all 
round,  but  'Celdy  went  with  him  to  the  yard-gate. 

"  I  sha'n't  write  to  you,  'Celdy,"  said  he,  answering 
a  dumb  inquiry  in  the  boy's  look ;  "  but  I  shall  often 
be  in  Hanover,  I  hope.  The  Seminary  is  not  faraway, 
and  there  are  long  vacations.  I  never  forget  any 
body,"  added  he,~  with  a  smile,  the  blank  look  of 
'Celdy's  face  prompting  him,  so  full  as  it  was  of  doubt 
and  regret.  And  so  Mr.  Fletcher  left  Hanover ;  nor 


362  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

did  'Celdy  know  till  years  afterward  that  he  had  re  fused 
to  write  him  simply  lest  hie  should  thereby  widen  the 
breach  between  the  boy  and  his  father. 

Three  years  in  the  Seminary  fast  rolled  by  to  Mr. 
Fletcher,  but  they  dragged  a  slow  length  to  Aceldama 
Sparks.  It  is  true  that  he  went  to  the  Academy,  and 
did  his  best  to  learn  in  spite  of  teachers  and  text 
books  ;  all  the  time  longing  in  his  soul  for  the  clear  and 
vivid  mind  that  had  interpenetrated  his  own,  and  made 
knowledge  and  study  more  keenly  sweet  than  any  free 
dom  to  be  idle.  Yet,  after  all,  this  discipline  was  best 
for  the  boy  ;  it  threw  him  on  himself  for  strength  and 
support ;  and  a  boy  who  learns  to  stand  alone,  even  in 
school,  is  half  a  man  ;  and  in  the  better  knowledge  of 
himself  that  self-reliance  gave,  he  learned  a  broader 
charity  for  his  fellows,  and  learned  how  blind  were  his 
own  eyes  when  he  would  teach  others  to  see.  At  home 
one  change  lightened  'Celdy's  time,  though  it  separated 
him  yet  farther  from  his  father.  Mrs.  Sparks's  mother 
was  a  widow  when  her  daughter  Eunice  married  Eben- 
ezer  Sparks,  but  soon  after  that  event  she  herself 
married  a  man  by  the  name  of  Case,  a  widower,  whose 
only  daughter  had  married  and  gone  to  Illinois.  Daniel 
Case  was  a  farmer,  —  kind-hearted,  well-meaning,  and 
honest,  but  emphatically  what  we  Yankees  call  shift 
less.  His  house-roof  leaked,  and  the  crevice  was 
stopped  up  with  rags,  because  he  was  "  goin'  to  get  a 
hundred  o'  shingles  to-morrer."  But  Mr.  Case's  to 
morrow  never  came.  His  barn-floor  rotted  and  fell  in, 
and  was  mended  with  old  plank  laid  across  the  floor, 
so  that  when  harvest-time  came  he  had  to  sell  his  rye 
as  it  stood,  for  he  had  no  place  to  thresh  it.  Then  the 
fences  began  to  give  way,  and  were  propped  with  white- 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  363 

birch  poles,  or  stopped  with  bushes,  because  lie  was 
"•  goin'  to  cut  them  chestuut-trees  next  week,  and  have 
a  lot  o'  new  rails."  But,  somehow  or  other,  the  trees 
were  never  cut  in  his  day,  and  house  and  farm  slipped 
out  of  his  easy,  listless  hands,  till  at  length  it  all  went, 
and  Daniel  Case  ;  his  wife,  who  was  "  a  sickly  cretur  ; " 
and  his  little  grand-daughter,  a  legacy  from  his  dead 
daughter  in  Illinois,  —  all  came  on  to  the  town  some 
twenty-six  years  after  Mrs.  Sparks's  marriage. 

This  was  the  great  trouble  of  Aunty  Sparks's  life, — 
something  that  stopped  her  laughter  whenever  she 
faced  its  reality  ;  for  not  one  cent  of  help  for  her  poor 
old  mother  or  her  kindly,  inefficient  husband  could  be 
wrung  from  the  deacon's  pocket.  He  would  not  have 
her  in  the  house,  or  feed  her  from  the  kitchen.  He 
said,  as  mightier  men  have  said  in  better  phrase  and 
more  polished  accent:  "  No,  you  needn't  pester  me, 
Miss  Sparks  ;  she  made  her  bed,  and  she's  got  to  lie 
on't  now ;  I  aint  going  to  work  my  legs  off  to  feed 
Daniel  Case's  laziness ;  they  can  hang  on  to  the  town 
if  they  want  to,  but  they  aint  goin'  to  hang  on  to 
me!" 

So,  in  process  of  time,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Case  were  put 
up  to  auction,  —  as  we  do  put  up  poor  people  in  New 
England  and  did  black  people  at  the  South,  —  to  be  sold 
off  to  the  lowest  bidder ;  and  an  old  woman,  whose 
bedridden  husband  had  a  pension  that  helped  them 
both  to  starve  at  their  own  expense  instead  of  the 
town's,  bidding  off  the  old  couple  at  a  lower  rate  than 
anybody  else,  they  were  forthwith  carted  down  to  her 
dwelling,  furnished  with  a  lean-to  in  the  garret,  fed  on 
salt  pork  and  potatoes,  but  neither  abused  nor  despised, 
for  a  sum  so  small  that  I  will  not  record  it ;  for  the 


364  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

same  reason  that  Mungo  Park  held  his  tongue  about 
the  wonders  he  saw  in  Africa,  —  lest  the  rest  of  my 
history  should  thereby  have  its  credibility  endangered. 

And  then  Hannah  Jones,  the  little  girl,  was  to  be 
bound  out-  Here  Aunty  Sparks  could  interfere,  though 
at  no  small  expense  of  goodness  and  labor.  She  per 
suaded  the  deacon,  ever  accessible  on  his  economic 
side,  that  she  didn't  need  a  grown  girl  to  help  her  in 
the  kitchen,  and  receive  wages  as  well  as  board  ;  that 
it  would  be  far  better  to  have  a  little  girl,  who  would 
eat  less,  cost  no  money  but  for  shoes,  and  be  clothed 
from  her  own  old  garments.  Powerful  arguments  all 
these  were  to  the  deacon,  whose  secret  soul  was  eaten 
into,  wide  and  deep,  by  that  money-rust  that  curses  the 
blessings  of  nine-tenths  of  our  northern  population, 
and  makes  the  very  foundations  of  their  lives  rotten 
and  tremulous.  Oh  !  had  I  but  one  hour  more  of  life  to 
hold  a  pen  ;  one  hour  of  reason  to  guide  my  thoughts 
to  its  tip  and  send  them  flying  over  the  land,  —  I  should 
think  that  hour  well  spent  if  I  consumed  it  in  preaching 
on  the  one  text  that  no  man  dare  expound  in  ks  awful 
power  and  significance  to  a  "respectable"  congrega 
tion  :  "  And  he  cast  down  the  thirty  pieces  of  silver  in 
the  temple,  and  departed,  and  went  and  hanged  him 
self  ! " 

So  there  was  another  fresh  young  soul  set  to  endure 
the  discipline  of  Deacon  Sparks's  household,  but  with 
far  better  chance  to  escape  its  contracting  influences 
than  'Celdy,  whose  very  soul  boiled  over  in  a  torrent 
of  righteous  indignation,  when  he  found  his  grand 
mother,  a  sweet-natured,  patient,  helpless,  and  gentle 
old  woman,  whom  'Celdy  loved  almost  as  well  as  his 
mother,  was  farmed  out  as  town  poor  to  the  tender 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  365 

mercies  of  old  Peggy  Myers.  Much  ado  had  Mrs. 
Sparks  to  keep  'Celdy's  wrath  out  of  the  deacon's  way  ; 
for  the  boy  of  sixteen  felt  himself  to  be  a  man,  and 
looked  at  his  father  from  a  conscious  level,  for,  as  a 
father,  in  the  divinest  sense  of  the  word,  never  could  he 
regard  Deacon  Sparks  ;  and  long  years  of  dutiful,  out 
ward  respect  were  }'et  needful  to  make  him  reverence 
the  relation  where  he  could  not  reverence  the  man. 

Aunty  Sparks  soothed  and  reasoned  and  persuaded 
in  vain,  till  at  length  she  cried,  and  'Celdy,  who  never 
saw  his  mother  cry  before,  gave  a  reluctant  promise 
not  to  say  anything  to  his  father ;  but  Aunty  Sparks 
had  well-nigh  undone  her  own  work  the  next  minute,  by 
saying,  as  a  sort  of  amends  to  the  unwilling  youth  :  — 

il  And  if  you  made  him  wrathy,  'Celdy,  you'd  just 
kick  over  your  own  dish,  for  he  wouldn't  give  you  an 
apple  nor  an  egg  for  grandmother ;  so  you'd  better 
keep  cool." 

"  O   mother!"  burst  out  'Celdy,  "that's  enough  to 

»/    '  O 

make  me  speak !  Do  you  think  I'd  keep  quiet  for 
such  a  reason  ?  Do  }-ou  think  I'd  let  him  help  grand 
mother  now?  No,  indeed,  I  wouldn't!  I'll  hold  my 
tongue  because  I  promised,  and  it  troubles  you  ;  but  I'd 
work  my  fingers  off  before  granny  should  touch  any 
thing  of  his." 

"  Miss  Sparks  !  "  interrupted  a  low  voice,  and  'Celdy 
turned  round  just  in  time  to  see  Hannah,  in  her  check 
apron,  holding  the  door  apart,  her  great  black  eyes 
full  of  tears  and  anger,  her  rosy  cheeks  red  as  an 
apple,  and  the  words,  that  her  pretty  red  lips  tried 
to  make  into  "•  Mr.  Little's  in  the  keepin'-room," 
choked  back^with  something  between  grief  and  rage : 
from  that  day  'Celdy  and  Hannah  were  sworn  friends. 


366  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

In  the  meantime  Aceldama  had  many  letters  from 
Mr.  Fletcher,  full  of  good  and  kind  advice  ;  for  which 
the  boy's  life  thanked  him  even  better  than  his  words. 
Hard  had  been  the  struggle  with  himself  before  'Celdy 
could  persuade  that  stubborn  self  that  it  was  right  to 
set  the  seal  of  Christian  profession  upon  his  new  life 
within  by  joining  Mr.  Little's  church.  "How  can  I," 
he  wrote  to  his  old  teacher,  "join  the  same  church  that 
holds  such  men  as  you  know  belong  to  Mr.  Little's,  — 
and  who  live  down,  in  their  niggardly,  selfish,  unlovely 
natures,  all  that  the  Gospel  publishes,  and  I  believe? 
How  can  I  prorfess  their  faith,  when  I  do  not,  and  dare 
not,  follow  their  practice?  How  can  I  hold  them  as 
brethren  whom  I  must  despise  and  dislike,  from  their 
utter  want  of  goodness  and  honesty  ?  " 

Mr.  Fletcher  pondered  sorrowfully  over  this  letter, 
for  it  had  to  him  more  significance  than  merely  the 
expression  of  Aceldama's  candid  perplexity  and  pain. 
It  was  the  outcry  of  a  whole  world  lying  in  sin  against 
a  passive  and  neglectful  Church.  Nay,  more — it  was 
the  solemn  voice  of  that  Church's  Head,  like  the  heavy 
pulses  of  a  knell,  tolling  down  through  ages  of  denial 
and  scorn  his  own  words,  uttered  where  the  fruitful 
Judean  valleys  illustrated  the  sentence,  "  By  their 
fruits  shall  ye  know  them.  Do  men  gather  grapes  of 
thorns,  or  figs  of  thistles?"  Yet,  ponder  as  he  might, 
there  was  but  one  thing  to  do,  for  truth  is  never  unsafe 
or  unjust;  and,  though  it  be  sometimes  the  cautery, 
and  sometimes  the  salve,  it  is  the  need  of  the  patient 
to  which  it  fits  itself  ;  and  it  was  not  in  Mr.  Fletcher's 
nature  to  tampei1  with  or  mitigate  any  truth,  however 
bitter,  so  he  answered  'Celdy  on  this  wise.:  — 

"  I  cannot  deny  that  what  you  say  of  those  church- 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  3G7 

members  is  true.  But  you  have  to  consider  two  views 
of  the  question  before  }-ou  judge  them  :  one  is,  the  influ 
ence  of  education  on  their  minds, — such  education  in 
both  theology  and  practical  religion  as  you  may  fairly 
infer  men  in  their  station  and  their  age  received.  It 
is  one  thing  to  adhere  to  wrong  because  you  have  been 
brought  up  in  it  till  it  has  become  a  habit,  and  another 
to  build  it  up  about  yourself  as  a  wall  against  good 
influences  and  full  light.  And  the  other  view  is,  con 
sideration  of  what  you  do  not  know  about  them  ;  the 
good  that  you  do  not  see ;  the  real  earnestness  to  do 
right  when  one  is  habit-blind  ;  the  inward  struggles 
with  sin ;  the  depression  of  physical  disease  or  do 
mestic  trouble  :  these  are  known  to  God  only,  and,  if 
you  could  discern  with  his  sight,  would  not  your  judg 
ment  be  modified  ?  And  then  there  is  the  harder  truth 
that  some  of  these  men  are  not  Christians ;  that  the 
tenderest  charity  and  the  most  gentle  judgment  can 
not  set  aside  the  bitter  fact  of  their  living  in  sin, 
though  professing  righteousness :  with  such  men  }-ou 
cannot  fraternize,  nor  are  you  bound  to  attempt  it. 
So  much  for  other  people  ;  too  much,  indeed ;  for  this 
is  a  matter  which  concerns  j'ourself,  and  you  only. 
Mr.  Little's  church  is  the  only  one  in  your  village,  the 
only  place  where  you  can  confess  Christ  before  men, 
and  that  you  own  to  be  a  duty  of  direct  importance. 
Go,  then,  and  fulfil  this  duty.  It  is  not  made  contin 
gent  on  any  circumstance.  If  there  was  not  one 
Christian  besides  yourself  in  the  list  of  members,  that 
would  not  affect  what  you  ought  to  do.  Nay,  it  ought 
rather  to  stimulate  you,  since  it  opens  a  field  of  action 
wider  and  more  hopeful  than  makes  the  station  of 
many  a  missionary,  and  the  Lord  has  said,  '  To  every 


368  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

man  his  work.'  Let  me  caution  you  against  one  thing, 
—  contempt.  Despise  no  one ;  there  is  no  human 
heart  that  is  all  evil,  and  the  solitary  fact  that  Christ 
came  to  die  for  every  man  should  place  all  far  above 
your  contempt.  Dare  you  despise  where  he  pitied  ?  " 

If  this  advice  seemed  hard  to  'Celdy,  at  least  he  took 
it,  and  was  admitted  to  Mr.  Little's  church  in  due  time, 
not  a  little  to  his  father's  satisfaction,  though  he  could 
not  repress  a  lurking  doubt  of  'Celd3*'s  orthodoxy  on 
several  points,  luckily  for  both,  not  included  in  the 
Confession  of  Faith  common  to  most  New  England 
churches. 

But  there  were  all  the  time  troubles  and  doubts  wedg 
ing  apart  Deacon  Sparks  and  his  son,  first  of  one  kind 
and  then  of  another.  If  the  deacon  began  a  theological 
discussion  after  supper  'Celdy  was  sure  to  hear  a  noise 
in  the  barn  that  needed  direct  attention,  or  some  bar 
rels  in  the  cellar  called  for  his  care,  or  Hannah  wanted 
help  to  set  up  her  tubs  and  take  her  cheeses  out  of 
press,  —  hardly  legitimate  work  for  evening ;  but  her 
quick  instinct  provided  excuses  for  'Celdy  when  his 
own  failed.  So,  after  a  time,  the  deacon  let  doctrines 
drop  ;  for  when  'Celd}'  was  eighteen  his  school-time 
ended,  and  he  came  home  to  "  farm  it."  Here  was 
fertile  subject  for  trouble  ;  the  untiring  kindness  of 
Mr.  Fletcher  furnished  him  with  a  good  agricultural 
paper,  and  his  own  acute  sense  seized  at  once  on  the 
practical  advantages  of  a  better  style  of  farming  than 
that  which  prevailed  in  Hanover.  But  he  might  better 
have  harangued  the  mulleins  and  golden-rods  that 
adorned  his  sheep-pasture  on  the  benefits  of  being 
pulled  up  than  attempt  to  convert  the  deacon  to  drain 
ing,  lime-manuring,  or  rotation  of  crops.  Rye  had  been 


ACELDAMA  SPARKS.  369 

grown  on  a  certain  slope  year  after  year  till  the  spin 
dling  stalks  conld  be  counted,  and  then  the  lot  was  given 
over  to  lie  at  ease  till  nature  should  cover  it  with  poor 
grass  again,  and  sheep  should  be  turned  in  to  starve. 
Potatoes  and  corn  had  their  allotted  places  as  much  as 
the  horses  and  wagons  in  the  barn  ;  and,  when  corn 
dwindled  and  potatoes  rotted,  the  deacon's  luck  was 
miscalled,  and  the  weather  helped  bear  the  blame. 
Twenty  acres  of  "  muck  "  swamp,  in  various  patches, 
that  would  have  made  the  eyes  of  a  modern  farmer  open 
with  delight,  and  his  crops. laugh  on  the  hill-sides,  that 
now  were  dry  and  sunny  enough  to  raise  the  best  black 
berries,  lay  altogether  idle,  except  for  the  frogs  that 
basked  in  its  black  and  shallow  pools,  or  the  mud-turtles 
that  sunned  themselves  on  every  stump,  and  scuttled 
away  at  the  rare  approach  of  step  or  voice. 

But  draining  was  not  to  be  heard  of  ;  lime,  and  guano, 
and  compost  heaps  took  rank  with  fairy  stories  in  the 
deacon's  mind.  His  father  and  his  grandfather  had 
been  farmers  before  him,  and  squeezed  a  living  from 
the  soil ;  and  what  his  father  and  grandfather  did  was 
good  enough  for  him,  especially  as  any  change  of 
method  involved  an  outlay  of  money ;  and  though  the 
deacon  was  willing  to  lay  out  his  own  labor  and  Acel 
dama's  at  lavish  expense  of  comfort  and  health, — 
perhaps  life,  —  money  was  out  of  the  question  ;  he 
would  rather  have  opened  a  vein  to  enrich  his  corn-lot 
than  spent  the  dollars  that  a  course  of  drain-tile  or  a 
barrel  of  lime  implied. 

So  Aceldama  fretted  over  his  work ;  mowed  and 
hoed,  and  raked  and  ploughed  with  grudging  effort,  and 
strayed  into  the  swamp,  whenever  he  got  a  leisure 
moment,  to  turn  up  the  rich  black  soil  and  specu.la.tQ  on 


370  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

its  value,  as  a  miser  might  count  his  useless  gold,  and 
sigh  over  its  stationary  existence.  Nothing  could  be 
done  with  the  deacon  ;  no  argument  could  convince  him 
that  Aceldama  knew  more  than  the  three  generations 
before  him,  as  he  was  pleased  to  put  the  case  ;  and  now 
he  retaliated  'Celdy's  neglect  of  his  theology  by  sniffing 
at  the  young  man's  new-fangled  ideas  on  farming,  and 
treating  his  opinions  with  an  open  contempt  that  kept 
them,  eventually,  silent.  Only  for  his  mother  and 
Hannah,  'Celdy  would  have  packed  up  his  Sunday  suit 
and  gone  to  seek  his  fortune  elsewhere  ;  but  his  mother 
more  and  more  depended  on  him  for  help  and  societ}' 
as  she  gradually  grew  older,  and  Hannah,  who  was  as 
merry  as  a  cricket,  even  under  the  deacon's  hard  eye, 
set  herself  to  work,  woman-fashion,  to  make  'Celdy 
comfortable  and  contented  as  far  as  she  could. 

And  unsentimental  as  it  may  seem  to  Sacharissa,  who 
alleviates  the  sorrows  of  Strephou  with  smiles  and 
Cologne-water,  it  was  no  small  comfort  to  'Celdy,  who 
was  only  flesh  and  blood,  to  have  his  dough-nuts  made 
and  fried  just  right,  his  stockings  mended  smoothly,  his 
shirts  never  lacking  a  button,  his  room  kept  in  faultless 
order,  his  own  special  lamp  —  with  which  he  read  in  his 
own  room  those  offending  agricultural  papers  and 
various  other  works  that  would  have  equally  enraged 
the  deacon  —  always  filled  and  trimmed,  and  spotlessly 
clean.  And  it  was  more  than  all  these  to  have  that 
bright,  prett}'  face  and  trim  figure,  animated  by  a  char 
acter  of  sparkling  common-sense  and  gay  good-temper, 
always  at  hand,  —  always  somebody  to  feel  for  and 
with  him  ;  to  admire  and  arrange  the  wild  flowei's  he 
brought  home  from  that  obnoxious  swamp  and  its 
edges  ;  to  trudge  over  the  three-mile  hill  of  a  moon- 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  371 

light  night  with  some  trifle  for  "grandmother;"  to 
escort  to  singing-school ;  to  go  berrying  with  ;  to  make 
"  posy-beds  "  for,  —  in  short,  to  love  ;  for  it  came  to 
that,  without  either  'Celdy  or  Hannah's  knowing  it ;  and 
a  very  good  plan  it  was. 

For  in  those  yet  primitive  regions  servants  were 
made  of  the  same  clay  with  their  masters  ;  were  men 
and  women  of  like  passions,  whose  feelings  and  tastes 
were  really  allowed  to  have  room,  and  whose  personality 
was  acknowledged  as  much  as  anybody's  else  ;  and  it 
was  thought  no  more  for  a  man  to  marry  "  their  hired 
girl,"  who  ate  and  drank  at  the  kitchen-table  with  the 
rest  of  the  famil}',  sat  in  their  pew  Sundays,  and 
belonged  to  the  same  sewing-society  with  her  mistress, 
than  it  is  in  those  parts  for  Mr.  Van  Tromp,  who  had  a 
great-grandfather  of  some  sort,  to  marry  Miss  Spratte, 
whose  grandfather  founded  the  family  in  a  new  hair- 
dye . 

So  between  bitter  and  sweet,  strife  and  peace, 
'Celdy  grew  to  twenty  and  Hannah  neared  eighteen. 
By  this  time  old  Mrs.  Case  had  grown  stone-blind  in 
her  attic  at  Peggy  Myers's  house,  and  her  husband  was 
bent  double  with  rheumatism,  and,  at  the  annual 
auction  of  the  poor,  Peggy  had  been  underbid  by  an 
old  half-breed  Indian  known  as  Peter  Piper,  whose 
shackling  house  of  two  rooms  and  a  garret  stood  on 
the  top  of  a  bare  hill,  exposed  to  every  wind  that 
blew,  and  leak}"  enough  to  drown  out  at  least  all  hope 
of  comfort  even  for  Peter  and  his  dirt}*,  drinking  wife. 
It  was  nothing  to  the  public,  who  paid  their  board, 
that  so  many  years  had  made  Peggy  Myers's  house 
home  to  these  old  and  feeble  people  ;  that  Mrs.  Case 
had  learned  to  grope  her  way  about  the  rooms  and 


372  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

even  through  the  garden  ;  still  less  did  it  matter  that 
Peter's  house  was  wet,  cold,  and  shackling  enough  to 
be  dangerous  in  a  high  wind  :  it  was  all  in  all  that  he 
had  offered  to  take  them  for  ten  dollars  less  than 
Peggy  could  afford,  and  no  town  could  be  so  foolishly 
benevolent  as  to  throw  away  ten  dollars  a  year  on  non- 
producers  like  these.  Besides,  if  they  did  die,  why, 
then,  the  whole  sum  was  saved.  But  the  selectman, 
unluckily  for  him,  had  a  heart, — a  thing  selectmen 
ought  never  to  be  troubled  with,  and  sometimes  are 
not;  but  Mr.  Steel,  being  so  afflicted,,  was  troubled 
enough  at  the  prospect  before  these  kindly  and  suffering 
old  folks.  Had  it  been  in  his  power  he  would  gladly 
have  kept  them  with  Mrs.  Myers  ;  but  he  was  only  the 
agent  of  the  town,  and  the  town's  nose  was  ringed 
with  a  silver  ring,  —  it  answered  only  to  the  appeal  of 
dollars  ;  nor  could  Mr.  Steel  pay  the  extra  sum  him 
self,  for  he  was  poor  enough  to  look  twice  at  even  a 
cent  before  he  dared  spend  it.  In  this  dilemma  Deacon 
Sparks  occurred  to  him.  He  was  able  to  put  the 
matter  at  i-est  directly  ;  he  was  well-to-do  ;  in  possession 
of  a  good  farm,  with  only  one  son,  he  could  hardly  help 
giving  so  much  aid  as  this  to  his  wife's  mother.  So  Mr. 
Steel  put  on  his  Sunday  coat,  tackled  up,  and  set  out 
for  Hanover  Corners,  where  the  deacon  lived,  some  four 
miles  west  of  the  Centre,  and  was  soon  welcomed  to  a 
seat  by  the  kitchen  fire  that  a  March  wind  without 
made  doubly  welcome.  Your  true  Yankee  never 
comes  to  the  point  at  once  ;  there  is  a  pleasing  satis 
faction  to  him  in  veering  to  every  point  of  the  compass 
before  he  indicates  his  stopping-place,  and  Mr.  Steel 
drew  largely  upon  everything  in  general  before  he 
came  to  his  proposition,  which  was  succinct  and  clear 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  373 

enough  when  he  did  reach  it.  Aunty  Sparks  dropped 
her  knitting  as  he  began  to  state  the  case,  Hannah 
intermitted  her  sewing,  and  'Celdy's  cheeks  gathered  a 
hot  flush  as  Mr.  Steel  went  on ;  but  the  deacon  sat 
still  till  he  finished,  and  then  spoke. 

"I  don't  know  but  what  you're  correct,  Mr.  Steel, 
about  this  business,  but  reelly  I  can't  say  as  I  feel 
called  to  pamper  Dan  Case  and  his  wife  beyond  pay  in* 
my  reg'lar  tax  to  the  town."  'Celdy  moved  as  if  to 
speak,  but  his  mother  looked  at  him,  and  her  eyes  were 
bright  with  tears ;  so  'Celdy  held  his  tongue,  and  the 
deacon  went  on  :  — 

"  It's  allers  been  my  principle  to  let  folks  reap  as 
they've  sowed,  and  I  can't  see  no  justice  in  my  grubbin' 
and  sweatin'  the  year  round  to  set  up  a  feller,  that  was 
allers  as  shiftless  as  a  cow-buntin',  in  luxury  and  ease. 
I  aint  a  wealth}1  man  myself ;  I  pay  my  debts  and 
calculate  to  subscribe  to  some  objects,  but  I  haint  got 
money  to  throw  away.  Besides,  I  don't  see  no  gre't 
call  for't ;  when  folks  gets  old  in  shiftless  wa}'S  I  ex 
pect  they  aint  partic'lar  about  where  they  do  put  up. 
I  guess  Miss  Case  an'  Dan  '11  be  about  as  well  off  with 
Peter  Piper  as  they  was  with  Miss  Myers." 

'Celdy  got  up  and  flung  out  of  the  room.  Mr.  Steel 
twiddled  his  restless  fingers  in  and  out  in  confusion, 
and  finally  ventured  :  — 

"Well,  I  thought  I'd  call  an'  say  how  it  was,  and 
maybe  you'd  feel  to  help  'em ;  they're  pretty  poor  off 
anyhow  " —  Here  he  stopped,  for  he  saw  a  big  bright 
drop  fall  into  Aunty  Sparks's  lap,  and  he  knew  her 
nature  well  enough  to  know  how  hard  tears  came  ;  all 
the  harder  for  the  thought  that  this  change  would  take 
her  mother  a  mile  and  a  half  farther,  where  the  homely 


374  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

dainties,  and  necessities  too,  that  she  had,  till  now, 
contrived  t  >  smuggle  down  to  her  once  or  twice  a  week, 
could  scarcely  reach  her  by  any  available  messenger. 
Hannah  had  stolen  out  of  the  room  to  comfort  'Celdy ,  — 
luckily  for  the  deacon,  as  it  reduced  his  audience  to 
two  before  he  answered  Mr.  Steel. 

"  Well,  Brother  Steel,  I  don't  feel  no  call  to  help 
'em.  I  don't  mind  Miss  Sparks's  sendin*  of 'em  bits  an' 
ends  now  an'  then  ;  but  payin'  out  money's  a  different 
thing  ;  and  I  can't  see  my  way  clear  to  be  sinkin'  ten  dol 
lars  a  year,  jest  so's  to  pamper  them  old  folks.  If  Dan 
Case  had  had  a  grain  of  common-sense  he  could  ha' 
had  a  house  over  his  head  to-day,  and  got  his  livin' ; 
but  now  he'd  oughter  be  thankful  to  be  kep'  from 
starvation,  and  he'll  profit  by  'xperienre,  I  guess." 

Mr.  Steel  said  "  Good-by,"  the  deacon  went  to  bed, 
and  Aunty  Sparks,  throwing  her  apron  over  her  head, 
sat  a  long  time  rocking  back  and  forth  by  the  fire, 
sometimes  crying  softly  over  her  poor  old  mother,  dear 
to  her  as  a  mother  should  be ;  sometimes  trying  to 
devise  any  plan  by  which  that  ten  dollars  could  be 
raised  in  time  to  pay  Peggy  Myers,  who  would  gladly 
have  kept  the  desolate  couple  if  she  could,  though  she 
did  not  make  two  dollars  a  year  out  of  her  "  boarder.^." 

'Celd}r  aud  Hannah  came  in  softly  from  the  shed  as 
soon  as  Deacon  Sparks's  snores  testified  his  absence 
from  the  kitchen  ;  and  Hannah,  giving  Mrs.  Sparks  a 
hearty  hug  and  kiss,  went  off  to  her  own  little  room 
with  a  heart  full  of  pity  and  indignation,  not  a  little 
consoled,  however,  by  the  quiet,  determined  way  in 
which  'Celdy  had  -said  to  her,  out  in  the  shed :  — 

"  I'll  make  it  straight,  Hannah." 

How  this  was  to  be  dune  Hannah  never  stopped  to 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  375 

question.  She  believed  in  him  with  all  the  innocence 
and  strength  of  her  fresh  and  loving  nature.  Happy 
child !  It  was  enough  for  her  that  he  undertook  any 
thing.  Though  it  wore  impossibility  on  its  face  to  all 
the  world  beside,  it  would  have  seemed  practicable  to  her 
since  'Celdy  did  it ;  and  she  rested  on  this  faith  to 
reverse  all  the  evil  and  wrong  in  both  their  lives.  So 
she  fell  asleep,  child-fashion,  without  a  care  for  the 
morrow. 

'Celdy  sat  down  by  his  mother,  who  had  dropped  her 
apron  and  resumed  her  knitting  as  soon  as  he  came  in, 
and  for  a  while  neither  of  them  spoke.  At  length  he 
said  :  — 

"Don't  be  troubled,  mother;  I'll  see  that  granny 
never  goes  to  Indian  Peter's.  Don't  you  lose  heart 
over  "it." 

Mrs.  Sparks  laughed  just  a  little,  partly  by  way  of 
reassuring  'Celdy  about  herself,  and  partly  because  of 
his  confident  and  grown-up  manner,  that  both  pleased 
and  amused  her  even  then. 

"  You  can't  help  it,  'Celdy,"  said  she,  "  and  I  can't 
either ;  and  if  'twasn't  best,  why,  the  Lord  wouldn't 
permit  it  when  he  knows  it  can't  be  helped.  I  feel 
bad  to  think  how  you'll  lay  it  up  against  your  father. 
I  know  you  feel  hard  toward  him  ;  but  you  must  call  to 
mind  his  natur'  and  his  briugin'  up.  His  father  was  a 
close  man,  and  I've  heerd  his  mother  was  inclined  that 
way.  She  come  of  a  family  that  was  always  called 
very  near;  so't  your  father  was  brought  up  that  way, 
and  you  can't  blame  him,  nor  I  can't  neither,  so  much 
as  if  he'd  ha'  been  differently  inclined  in  his  youth. 
I  do  feel  bad  about  mother,  and  about  Father  Case, 
for  I  don't  feel  as  if  Indian  Peter  was  a  faithful  man, 


376  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

and  his  house  is  dreadful  leaky  and  shacklin'  ;  but  then 
we  must  make  the  best  on't,  and  I  oughter  be  thankful 
your  father  lets  me  take  'em  vittles,  —  that's  a  great 
deal." 

"  You  always  do  make  the  best  of  everything, 
mother,"  said  'Celdy,  in  a  tone  of  mixed  admiration 
and  affection  ;  "but  there's  scarce  any  best  to  this.  I 
shall  be  twenty-one  next  week,  and  you'll  see  how  I 
shall  help  the  matter  if  I  live." 

So  the  affair  rested  for  that  night,  and  for  several 
days  after  nothing  was  heard  of  it,  till  the  week  before 
'Celdy's  birthday,  when  he  was  busy  in  the  barn  with 
his  father.  He  thought  best  to  enlighten  the  deacon. 

"  Father,"  said  he,  "  Sam  Myers,  who  used  to  work 
for  you  when  I  went  to  the  'Cademy,  is  here,  down  to 
the  Centre.  Don't  you  want  to  hire  him?  " 

"  Why,  no,"  said  the  deacon,  facing  'Celdy  with  a 
grim  look  of  surprise;  "I  don't  calc'late  to  keep  a 
hired  man.  I  guess  you  an'  I  can  do  all  the  work  on 
this  farm  if  you  don't  go  to  runnin'  arter  your  new 
idees,  an'  I  guess  you  won't  have  no  chance  arter  the 
worst  on  'em,  for  I  sold  the  hull  o'  that  are  swamp  to 
Squire  Willet  yesterday." 

'Celdy  set  his  face  into  its  most  dogged  look. 

"But  you  won't  have  me,  sir.  I'm  twenty-one 
next  week,  and  I've  taken  Squire  Willet's  farm  on 
shares,  from  the  fifteenth  of  April." 

The  deacon  dropped  the  broom  he  was  sweeping  up 
hay-seed  with. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  s'pose  that's  your  New-School 
idee  of  honorin'  parents,  aint  it?  I've  ben  an'  brought 
you  up,  an'  paid  your  schoolin',  and  now  you  go  off." 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,  as  you've  done  anything  more'u 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  377 

what  everybody  does  for  their  sons,"  remarked  'Celcly 
between  his  teeth. 

"Where  be  you  a-goin*  to  live?"  said  the  deacon. 

"  I'm  going  to  live  in  the  farm-honse  on  Long  Pond 
that  he  built  for  Mrs.  Willet's  brother  before  he  went 
"West.  The  squire's  going  to  Congress  for  four  years, 
and  I've  got  the  farm  on  trial." 

"  Two  fools  together !  "  growled  the  deacon. 

'Celdy  set  down  his  peck  measure,  and  set  his  back 
against  the  manger. 

"  Father,"  said  he,  "I  don't  think  you  can  say  any 
thing  to  me  about  honoring  parents  when  you'll  let 
Grandmother  Case  go  to  Peter  Piper's  because  you 
won't  pay  ten  dollars  to  help  it.  I  can't  stand  that. 
You  may  give  your  money  to  the  heathen  ;  I  shall 
take  care  of  my  own  household  first.  I'm  a  man  now, 
and  I  shouldn't  dare  show  my  face  before  God  or  man 
while  grandmother  was  starved  and  miserable  in  that 
old  Indian  hut.  I  don't  know  anything  about  what 
you  call  Old  and  New  School ;  but  I  know  what  my 
duty  is,  and  I've  got  to  do  it ;  and  as  long  as  grand 
mother  and  Dan  Case  live  I'll  take  care  of  them,  if  I 
work  my  hands  off." 

The  deacon  stood  stock-still.  'Celdy  walked  out  of 
the  barn  into  the  woods.  He  was  afraid  to  trust  his 
temper  farther ;  he  was  afraid  of  having  indulged  it 
even  in  what  he  had  said.  He  lay  down  at  the  foot  of 
a  huge  pine-tree  that  towered  up  above  him,  a  spire  of 
verdure  and  fragrance  and  sad  music.  The  chords 
of  its  whispering  anthem  soothed  his  excited  brain  ; 
the  blue  sky  above  shone  through  those  waving  boughs 
like  a  glimpse  of  God's  eternity  through  the  flickering 
of  time.  Young  as  he  was,  the  troubles  and  doubts  of 


378  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

every  earnest  mind  already  had  wearied  him  with  their 
assaults,  so  that  a  prospect  of  heavenly  rest  was  sweet 
even  when  all  life's  hope  lay  tempting  before  him. 
The  mournful  character  of  New  England  scenery,  the 
sober  nature  of  a  life  that  must  needs  be  one  long 
labor,  the  repressive  system  of  his  home,  —  all  tended  to 
make  his  buoyant  nature  pensive,  if  not  sad ;  and  as 
he  la}r  there  under  the  tree,  no  hermit  in  his  rocky  cell, 
on  desolate  mountains,  or  sandy  deserts,  could  have 
looked  at  the  world  with  more  pitying  contempt  than 
did  'Celdy,  when  all  at  once  one  of  those  poems  God 
has  scattered  in  the  wilderness,  that  birds  and  brooks 
alone  set  to  music,  met  his  eye.  Under  the  next  tree, 
right  at  its  foot,  basking  in  a  gleam  of  sunshine,  stood 
a  tiny  cluster  of  blue  squirrel-cups,  —  "  liverworts,"  as 
the  country  people  call  them  ;  at  the  foot  of  that  mas 
sive  tree,  from  the  shrivelled  heap  of  last  3'ear's  leaves, 
that  bunch  of  crowded  azure  blossoms  and  gray,  downy 
buds  looked  up  to  the  rare  sun,  as  bright,  as  fearless, 
as  serene  as  —  Hannah  ! 

'Celdy  sprung  up  from  the  turf,  and  stooped  over  the 
pretty  creatures,  with  a  shy  longing  to  kiss  them, 
which,  being  a  Yankee  boy,  he  did  not  indulge ;  then 
he  felt  for  his  knife  to  dig  them  up  and  carry  them  away 
bodily  ;  but,  as  he  opened  the  broad  blade,  a  better 
impulse  filled  him.  He  would  not  move  them ;  they 
belonged  there.  Amidst  the  thousand  odors  of  spring 
in  the  woods,  glinting  against  the  golden-brown  of  the 
dead  leaves  about  them,  neighbored  by  the  chattering 
squirrels,  and  praised  by  the  first  song  of  the  year, 
there  they  bloomed  and  there  they  should  die,  rather 
than  in  a  cracked  teapot  on  Hannah's  window. 

But  'Celdy  went  home  comforted,  though  he  didn't 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  379 

know  how,  and  though  he  avoided  his  father  and  spent 
the  mild,  smoky  evening  chiefly  on  the  step  of  the  back 
shed  in  the  moonlight,  Hannah  was  there  too,  with  a 
shawl  over  her  head,  and  'Celdy's  arm  round  her, — to 
keep  her  warm,  I  suppose  ;  and  whether  he  learned  his 
lesson  of  the  squirrel-cups,  or  not,  I  cannot  tell,  but 
Hannah  left  him  at  bedtime  with  the  remark  that  he 
"beat  all  for  persuadin'  folks  out  of  their  own  mind." 

Deacon  Sparks  preserved  a  grim  silence.  Pride  for 
bade  that  he  should  relent  toward  'Geld}*,  even  so  far 
as  to  speak  with  him  a  word  that  was  not  absolutely 
necessary.  He  hired  a  man,  but  not  the  one  his  son 
had  recommended.  He  went  his  way  to  work,  and 
when  on  Sunday,  the  second  day  of  April,  Deacon 
Sparks  heard  the  Rev.  Mr.  Little  read  from  his  pulpit 
the  intention  of  marriage  between  Aceldama  Sparks 
and  Hannah  Jones,  he  so  far  held  the  outer  man  in 
tight  subjection  that  his  eyelash  never  quivered,  nor 
his  mouth  stirred  from  its  grim  lines. 

So  Hannah  and  'Celdy  were  married  at  the  minister's 
house  the  next  Sunday,  and,  taking  the  old  couple  off 
the  town's  hands,  were  all  settled  in  the  new  house  at 
Long  Pond  by  the  fifteenth  of  the  mouth.  Scarce  any 
body  but  Hannah  and  'Celdy  would  have  begun  life  on 
such  small  foundations  ;  but  'Celdy  never  forgot  a  sen 
tence  in  Mr.  Fletcher's  letter  answering  one  of  his  that 
asked  advice  on  this  matter:  "Don't  be  ashamed  of 
anything  but  sin  ;  if  you  have  enough  to  eat  and  keep 
warm  with,  and  a  clear  conscience,  no  man  is  better 
off  than  you."  Just  these  requisites  Aceldama  had. 
Squire  Willet,  a  good  man,  and  a  progressive  one, 
knew  enough  of  his  circumstances  and  education  to 
give  him  a  helping  hand  with  true  pleasure.  Hannah 


380  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

found  a  barrel  of  pork  and  two  of  potatoes  in  the 
cellar,  which  Mrs.  Willet  sent  over  because  she  was 
going  to  "Washington,  and  from  there  to  spend  the 
summer  at  the  sea-side,  and  stores  wouldn't  keep. 
What  should  have  been  the  parlor  was  given  up  to  the 
old  folks  for  a  bedroom,  and  they  had  bedding  of  their 
own,  and  a  rickety  bedstead,  with  one  chair,  an  old 
rocker,  and  a  hair  trunk,  —  that  made  all  the  furnishing 
their  room  could  boast.  Mrs.  Sparks  had  made  over 
to  Hannah  the  bed  that  belonged  to  her  in  right  of  her 
term  as  "bound  girl"  having  elapsed,  and  added  to  it 
some  linen  and  blankets  that  she  had  brought  with  her 
when  the  deacon  married  her.  A  few  coarse  towels,  a 
kettle,  a  spider,  and  a  little  tin,  with  a  plain  set  of 
absolutely  necessary  crockery  for  the  table,  completed 
Hannah's  equipage,  taken  in  lieu  of  the  heifer-calf,  — 
that  is,  besides  the  bed,  —  a  bound  girl's  general  portion 
on  her  release.  She  and  Aceldama  had  two  boxes  for 
their  clothes,  and  they  spread  their  bed  on  the  floor  in 
an  upper  room. 

Yet,  if  ever  a  philosopher  wanted  an  illustration  to 
vindicate  his  contempt  for  circumstances,  we  should 
have  recommended  him  to  'Celdy's  home.  No  young 
wife  of  a  boyish  millionnaire,  in  her  morning  robe  of 
silk,  with  laced  and  embroidered  garments  peeping 
from  under  its  soft  and  heavy  folds,  and  every  delight 
or  glory  that  money  can  bring  gathered  about  her, 
ever  shone  more  cheerfully  lovely  than  Hannah,  in  her 
dark  print  dress  and  clean  white  collar,  doing  up 
"  chores,"  with  old  Dan  Case  poking  about  in  vain 
attempts  to  help  her,  and  granny  in  her  chair  by  the 
sunny  south  window,  knitting  at  her  blue  stocking,  her 
face  as  quiet  as  a  child's,  and  her  eyes  closed  as  if  will, 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  381 

not  power,  were  wanting  to  see  with.  'Celdy  had  read 
enough  fiction  in  his  life  to  have  a  clue  value  for  sur 
roundings,  and  would  have  liked  as  well  as  any  man  to 
see  his  wife  in  a  romantic  cottage,  overhung  with  roses, 
gracefully  doing  nothing ;  but  we  doubt  if  he  would 
have  loved  her  half  as  much  under  those  pleasing 
aspects  as  he  did  now,  when  every  day  showed  him 
more  and  more  how  neat,  how  cheerful,  how  contented 
she  could  be  in  the  midst  of  absolute  poverty  with  him. 

It  was  the  most  subtle  flattery  he  could  receive,  be 
cause  the  most  unconscious  in  its  giver ;  and  to  him 
perhaps  the  thought  came,  as  it  does  to  us,  why  might 
not  thousands  of  other  men,  who  dare  not  marry  be 
cause  the}7  are  poor,  attempt  and  find  the  same  happi 
ness  by  the  same  faith  in  the  woman  they  love  ? 

Heaven  knows  that  women  are  the  weaker  sex  ;  that 
they  are  full  of  faults  and  full  of  follies ;  but  where 
one  woman  in  ten  would  make  a  man's  life  wretched 
by  pining  after  show  and  luxury,  the  other  nine  would 
ask  nothing  but  love  and  trust  enough  to  make  them 
happy  in  four  bare  walls.  It  is  not  here  that  women's 
sins  lie.  The  whole  life  of  thousands,  as  poor  as  utter 
destitution  can  make  them,  tells  another  story.  Love 
a  woman  enough  to  trust  her,  and  if  she  loves  you, 
doubting  and  sneering  man !  she  will  upset  all  your 
woman-hating  theories  in  a  year ;  but  treat  her  like  a 
doll  and  a  fool,  and  she  will  be  both.  Is  it  an  un 
natural  result? 

Mrs.  Sparks  stole  down  as  often  as  she  found  the 
deacon's  work  took  him  to  a  distant  field  to  see  her 
boy  and  his  wife,  as  well  as  to  comfort  her  old  mother  ; 
but  the  deacon  never  came,  nor  did  'Celdy's  Christian 
charity  get  the  better  of  him  yet,  enough  for  him  to  go 


382  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

home  at  all.  He  could  not  forget  that  when  he  left  his 
father,  and  stifling  all  his  worse  feelings  in  the  real 
affection  that  only  slept  within  him,  he  said,  "  Good- 
by,  father,"  holding  out  his  hand,  the  deacon  had 
held  his  own  still  before  him,  and,  turning  red  with 
rage,  answered  :  — 

"  You'll  come  back  here  begging  yet !  " 

"  Never,  if  I  die  on  the  town  !  "  said  'Cekty,  equally 
red.  And  so  father  and  son  had  parted. 

Squire  AVillet  had  left  his  farm  on  'Celdy's  hands, 
with  full  power  to  work  it  as  he  pleased,  swamp  and 
all,  and  'Celdy  was  faithful  to  his  trust.  He  hired  but 
two  men  to  help  him,  and  made  the  eyes  of  all  the 
farmers  round  about  open  wide  by  the  barrels  of  lime 
and  courses  of  drain-tile  that  he  laid  in  for  the  cam 
paign  ;  but  he  knew  what  he  was  about.  Up  early,  and 
out  late,  never  idle  a  moment,  never  looking  on,  but 
always  at  work  with  his  men,  he  showed  the  most  in 
credulous  how  much  more  a  head  is  worth  than  hands 
alone  ;  and  when  Squire  Willet  came  back  to  Hanover 
for  a  visit  in  the  autumn,  to  inspect  his  farm  and 
settle  accounts  with  Aceldama,  the  twenty-acre  swamp 
waved  with  such  a  crop  of  corn  as  no  field  in  the  town 
ship  ever  saw  before,  and  there  was  more  hay  and  nre 
harvested  than  even  his  big  barns  could  hold.  'Celdy 
made  enough  out  of  his  farming  that  year  to  buy  a 
bedstead  and  a  new  cloak  for  Hannah,  and  lay  up  a 
small  sum  besides  for  future  emergencies  ;  since  he  had 
discovered  that  he  was  as  happy  as  he  need  be  —  with 
Hannah,  and  without  furniture ! 

In  the  winter  the  trimming  and  thinning  of  the  wood- 
lot,  and  the  clearing  of  a  hill-side  swarming  with  white 
birches,  gave  them  wood  enough  to  defy  even  a  New 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  383 

England  winter;  and,  nnable  to  be  idle,  'Celcly  set  up 
two  coal-pits,  and  brought  new  profit  out  of  the  hitherto 
waste  lands  on  the  place. 

Toward  the  end  of  their  first  year's  life  there,  old  Dan 
Case  died.  He  was  not  sick  long,  and  his  feeble  mind 
lost  nothing  during  that  brief  illness.  He  paid  Hannah 
richly  for  all  her  care  by  his  grateful  words  on  those 
few  days  ;  she  was  good  enough  to  be  rewarded  for 
any  trouble,  by  feeling  that  she  had  made  the  last  year 
of  her  grandfather's  life  on  earth  both  comfortable  and 
happy,  and  she  never  could  be  glad  enough  that  his 
last  words  were  :  — 

"Hanner!  you've  got  a  good  husband  ;  the  Lord'll 
bless  him  an'  his'n,  because  he  haint  forgot  the  Lord's 
poor.  I  can't  rightly  remember  things  now ;  I'm 
kinder  riled  in  my  head ;  but  there  is  a  text  some- 
wheres  that  means  him  ;  it's  about  doin'  it  to  '  the  least 
of  these.'  Oh,  yes !  I  remember!"  He  raised  his 
head  and  looked  full  at  'Celdy  coming  in  at  the  door. 
' '  The  Lord  says,  '  Ye  have  clone  it  unto  me  !  " 

"  He's  been  a  great  burden  to  you,"  said  Mr.  Little 
to  Aceldama,  on  the  day  of  the  funeral,  which  was  held 
in  church  on  Sunday. 

"Oh,  no,  sir!"  was  the  almost  indignant  reply; 
"he  has  been  a  great  blessing!" 

Deacon  Sparks  heard  it. 

The  second  year  of  'Celdy's  farming  kept  the  promise 
of  the  first  good,  and  was  brightened  all  through  by  a 
visit  from  Mr.  Fletcher,  who  slept  on  the  floor,  and 
lived  on  pork,  potatoes,  and  rye-bread,  with  as  much 
apparent  enjoyment  as  if  they  had  been  the  luxuries 
of  a  palace.  It  was  a  great  refreshment  to  'Celdy, 


384  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

mentally,  to  have  his  company  at  his  daily  work ;  not 
that  Mr.  Fletcher  worked  much,  for  he  had  come  there 
to  rest,  and  he  therefore  conscientiously  rested ;  but 
his  quick,  practical  insight,  that  he  always  exerted  for 
others,  though  never  for  himself,  and  his  poetic  faculty 
of  seeing  the  beauty  in  every  common  thing,  seemed  to 
illustrate  even  labor,  and  make  it  vivid  with  power  and 
loveliness.  Then  he  appreciated  Hannah ;  and  there 
is  no  man  who  does  not  like  to  have  his  wife  praised 
by  another,  especially  by  one  whom  he  admires  and 
respects.  A  woman  loves  for  love's  sake  ;  it  makes 
no  difference  to  her  what  the  world  sa}-s  :  it  is  enough 
that  she  loves  her  lover;  praise  intrudes,  and  blame  is 
simply  outside  barbarism.  But  a  man  loves  for  his 
own  sake ;  pride  and  self-gratulatiou  mingle  with  his 
passion  and  affection  ;  he  is  commercial  enough  in  his 
very  nature  to  feel  better  satisfied  with  a  bill  the  more 
good  indorsers  it  has.  "  Pit3'  'tis,  'tis  true." 

So  this  visit  left  'Celdy  in  good  heart  for  the  sum 
mer's  labors  —  all  the  more  that  "granny"  elevated 
*'  that  are  Mr.  Fletcher"  into  a  household  oracle,  and 
quoted  him  on  all  possible  occasions  ;  aud  Hannah  kept 
alive  in  her  husband's  mind  a  hone  too  sweet  not  to  be 
cherished,  small  as  it  was,  that  Hanover  people  would 
some  day  call  Mr.  Fletcher  to  be  colleague  with  Mr. 
Little,  now  stricken  in  years  and  extremely  feeble. 

"  No,  they  won't,  Hannah  ! "  'Celdy  would  say,  with 
great  emphasis.  "They  don't  know  him,  and  he  aint 
orthodox  enough."  But,  for  all  that,  a  vague  hope 
existed  in  his  mind,  till  it  was  finally  quashed  by  Mr. 
Fletcher's  receiving  and  accepting  a  call  to  Hanover 
Centre,  four  miles  from  the  Corners,  and  inaccessible 
to  anybody  but  'Celdy,  because  they  kept  no  horse. 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  385 

Six  months  he  trudged  that  distance  every  Sunday  to 
hear  his  old  friend  preach  ;  for  Hannah  had  now  a  little 
occupation  at  home  that  made  "  meeting "  impracti 
cable  ;  till  one  Sunday  in  the  second  spring  after  their 
marriage  she  did  contrive  to  walk  to  church,  and  Mr. 
Little  being  too  ill  to  preach,  Mr.  Fletcher  supplied  his 
place  and  baptized  Aceldama  Sparks'  baby  and  his  own 
namesake. 

This  was  rather  too  much  for  Deacon  Sparks.  If 
'Celdy  had  shown  one  sign  of  relenting  toward  his 
father  —  if  he  had  even  called  his  baby  Samuel  Ebenezer 
—  the  deacon  might  have  "come  round;"  but  to  go 
and  name  his  first  grandchild  after  the  man,  of  all 
others,  who  had  been,  in  the  deacon's  eyes,  the  primary 
cause  of  their  separation,  was  not  to  be  forgiven. 

It  is  true  Mrs.  Sparks  and  Hannah  both  begged  this 
mitigation  of  the  name,  but  'Celdy  was  not  to  be 
persuaded  ;  the  dogged  old  Adam,  who  gets  credit  for 
all  his  children's  sins,  lurked  deep  in  'Celdy 's  heart, 
and  made  him  uncomfortable  through  every  duty  of  his 
life,  religious  or  secular.  He  knew  he  did  not  feel  as 
he  should  toward  bis  father ;  but  he  laid  the  blame  on 
his  father's  shoulders,  and  refused  to  own  that  both 
could  be  wrong  as  well  as  one. 

That  year  the  farm-work  needed  a  horse  ;  so  'Celdy 
bought  one,  and  built  a  barn,  and  removed  his  member 
ship  and  Hannah's  to  the  Centre  church.  This  was 
the  climax  of  Deacon  Sparks's  affliction.  He  couldn't 
any  way  understand  the  works  of  Providence ;  he 
could  not  see  why  a  New-School  man,  and  one  who  set 
light  by  his  father,  and  called  him  to  naught  by  his 
actions,  as  he  phrased  it,  should  be  blessed  in  all  his 
temporal  undertakings, — have  the  best  wife,  and  the 


386  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN-. 

finest  child,  and  the  biggest  crops  in  the  township.  He 
had  eaten  sour  grapes,  and  it  was  against  Scripture 
that  'Celdy's  teeth  were  not  set  on  edge. 

So  matters  progressed,  for  three  years,  during  which 
the  deacon's  farming  plodded  slowly  backward,  and 
Squire  Willet's  farm  got  the  premium  at  the  county 
fair.  Hanover  people  began  to  wake  up  to  the  merits 
of  modern  farming ;  and  'Celdy  worked  his  way  into 
the  respect  of  everybody  who  knew  him,  not  merely 
by  his  agricultural  success,  but  by  the  never-failing 
care  and  kindness  with  which  he  treated  his  old  blind 
grandmother.  Still  Aceldama  was  not  happy,  and  Mr. 
Fletcher  saw  it,  and  treated  him  accordingly. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you?"  said  he  to  Acel 
dama,  one  Sunday  night,  after  tea  was  over,  and  they 
sat  on  the  door-step,  looking  at  the  sunset,  while 
Hannah  "  cleared  off  "  within. 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,"  said  Aceldama. 

"  Then  I  shall  have  to  tell  you,"  said  Mr.  Fletcher; 
"  you  have  everything  at  home  here,  in  ycur  family  and 
in  your  success,  to  make  you  happy ;  but  you  don't  feel 
right  to  your  father." 

"Well,  what  can  I  do?"  answered  'Celdy,  with  a 
sudden  burst  of  angry  grief :  "he  don't  treat  me  as  if 
I  was  his  son ;  he  is  not  so  civil  to  me  as  to  the  com 
monest  beggar.  What  can  I  do?  " 

"  I  don't  see  that  what  he  is  or  does  has  anything  to 
do  with  your  duty  ;  if  he  neglects  his,  that  is  his  affair. 
Have  you  tried  all  you  can  to  be  friends  with  him  ?  " 

Aceldama  was  honest ;  he  hung  his  head  and  said, 
"  No." 

"  Then  go  and  do  it  at  once.  Go  to-night.  I  can 
not  offer  you  any  hope  of  peace  unless  you  are  willing 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  387 

to  do  a  known  duty  as  soon  as  you  see  it.  If  you  have 
spoken  disrespectfully  to  him,  say  so,  and  ask  his 
pardon  ;  tell  him  you  want  to  be  at  peace  with  him ; 
that  you  have  suffered  from  your  estrangement.  Do 
this,  and,  whatever  answer  he  gives  you,  I  can  promise 
you  a  light  heart  and  a  pure  conscience  then ;  but  not 
till  then." 

"  I  will,"  said  Aceldama,  and,  quite  forgetful  of  Mr. 
Fletcher,  afraid  only  of  delaying  so  disagreeable  a  duty, 
he  took  his  hat  and  went ;  leaving  his  pastor  in  the 
door,  no  longer  interested  in  the  sunset,  but  thinking 
in  himself,  with  increasing  respect  and  affection  for 
'Celdy,  how  few  men  in  all  the  world  kept  in  their 
life  of  business  the  directness  and  honesty  ~that  had 
sent  the  young  man  on  such  an  errand,  with  so  slight 
an  impulse.  He  did  not  know  himself  how  much  he 
had  to  do  with  it ;  how  far  his  own  stainless  life,  and 
practice  of  what  he  preached,  had  given  him  the  great 
power  he  possessed  over  all  who  knew  him. 

It  is  almost  always  true  that  Providence  smooths 
before  us  the  path  to  any  duty  from  the  moment  we 
enter  it.  A  thicket  of  doubts  and  fears  may  present 
itself  before  us,  but  the  boughs  bend  and  the  briers 
part  as  we  face  them,  and  we  find  a  straight  way  ready 
for  our  feet.  So  Aceldama  found  it,  for  his  mother 
met  him  on  the  step  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  His 
father  had  been  taken  sick  the  night  before,  with  a 
heavy  cold  apparently  ;  it  had  increased  now  to  fever, 
and  he  lay  on  his  bed  seemingly  stupid,  but  flushed 
with  heat,  and  restless,  though  unconscious.  The 
doctor  had  just  been  there,  and  pronounced  him  in 
danger;  and  Mrs.  Sparks,  full  of  apprehension, 
thought  he  had  sent  Aceldama  up  on  his  way  back  to 


388  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

his  house  ;  and  so  he  would  have,  but  that  'Celdy  came 
across  the  lots,  and  Dr.  Brooks  went  by  the  road. 
Aceldama  was  glad  always  that  he  came  of  his  own 
will. 

For  many  long  days  and  nights  Deacon  Sparks 
groaned  and  tossed  in  the  anguish  of  a  raging  fever. 
'Celdy  only  went  home  to  direct  his  men  about  the 
work ;  he  was  always  at  hand  at  night,  and  watched 
and  wore  himself  to  a  shadow, — too  glad  to  show 
how  earnest  his  resolutions  had  been,  by  some  visible 
act  of  witness.  Deacon  Sparks  neither  knew  wife  nor 
son  for  ten  days.  His  first  consciousness  ensued  on  a 
heavy  sleep,  from  which  he  woke  early  one  April  day, 
free  from  fever,  but  weak  as  a  child ;  and,  gathering 
his  fluttered  senses  so  far  as  to  know  where  he  was, 
heard  'Celdy  say,  in  the  next  room,  in  a  voice  which 
only  the  extreme  sensitiveness  of  weakness  could  have 
rendered  audible  to  his  father  :  — 

"No,  mother;  I  can't  leave  him  now;  tell  Jay  to 
let  the  wheat-lot  go.  I  don't  care  if  there  isn't  a 
blade  of  grain  on  that  lot  this  year :  I  shall  not  leave 
father." 

Deacon  Sparks  could  not  believe  his  ears ;  his  mind 
was  too  weak  and  dreamy  to  linger  long  on  anything ; 
but  the  sentence  lived  in  his  memory,  and  was  there 
turned  over  and  over  again  during  his  long  convales 
cence,  and  resulted  in  his  slow  conviction  that,  after 
all,  'Celdy  must  have  a  strange  affection  for  his  old 
father,  since  he  risked  a  crop  worth  at  least  a  hundred 
dollars,  net  profit,  to  stay  with  him  over  the  crisis  of 
his  illness. 

For  dollars  were  the  deacon's  standard,  and  when  a 
man  has  one  habitual  gauge  of  value  he  reduces  strange 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  389 

things  to  that  measure ;  however,  it  is  significant  to 
himself,  though  it  be  even  ludicrous  to  another. 

He  was  a  long  time  getting  well.  Week  after  week 
rolled  by,  and  still  'Celdy  was  needed  often  to  lift  his 
father  from  one  bed  to  another ;  to  watch  by  him  at 
night,  when  his  mother  was  altogether  worn  out ;  to 
oversee  the  deacon's  neglected  affairs,  over  which  he 
fretted  and  worried  enough  to  have  made  a  well  man 
sick  ;  and  all  this  time  he  said  nothing  of  reconciliation 
or  affection  to  his  son,  —  not  one  word. 

By  no  means  because  he  did  not  feel  it,  and  show  it, 
too,  in  his  own  way  ;  but  a  genuine  Yankee  is  lost  for 
words  to  express  emotion,  however  deep  it  may  be. 
Perhaps  he  is  used  rather  to  consider  language  as  so 
potent  an  ally  in  cheating  and  chaffering,  that  he  hesi 
tates  to  profane  truth  and  feeling  by  utterance  ;  or  per 
haps  he  is  conscious  that  the  nasal  twang  of  dear  old 
New  England  is  scarce  fitted  to  adorn  or  intensify  the 
tenderer  and  sweeter  sentiments  of  life.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  the  fact  remains  true  ;  nay,  we  recall  now  one 
man  of  profound  mind  and  intense  sympathies,  whose 
professional  attempts  at  consolation  or  advice  almost 
always  give  pain  and  excite  anger,  from  the  simple  ina 
bility  existing  in  him  to  speak  what  he  feels  with  the 
same  depth  and  delicacy  that  he  feels  it.  When  will 
somebody  annex  to  the  "  school  of  the  prophets"  most 
in  vogue,  a  "  school  of  expression,"  and  get  a  woman 
to  teach  it  ?  But  Aceldama  knew  that  his  father  had 
restored  him  to  his  old  place  quite  as  well  as  if  he  had 
orientally  fallen  on  his  neck  and  wept,  and  was  rather 
pleased  to  have  the  reconciliation  tacit  himself.  As 
Deacon  Sparks  grew  better,  and  came  out  again  into 
life  to  do  for  himself,  every  one  who  saw  him  perceived 


390  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

that  he  was  softened  toward  things  in  general,  as  well 
as  toward  'Celdy.  lie  gave  more  to  the  poor-box,  and 
quite  as  much  to  the  heathen ;  he  went  all  over  Squire 
Willet's  farm,  and  did  not  sniff  once  at  the  new-fangled 
machines  and  operations  for  its  management.  He  vol 
unteered  a  call  on  Hannah,  in  return  for  the  many  she 
bad  made  him,  and  shook  hands  with  old  Mrs.  Case, 
frho  was  as  earnestly  glad  to  welcome  him  as  if  he  had 
been  the  best  son-in-law  living,  and  coaxed  Master 
Sammy  into  the  beginnings  of  a  friendship  so  fervent 
that  thereafter  neither  grandfather  nor  grandson  were 
ever  so  happy  as  when  together ;  and  Sam  led  the  old 
deacon  into  all  sorts  of  places,  at  all  times  and  seasons, 
simply  by  pulling  at  his  knotty  forefinger,  till  Hannah 
had  to  interfere  for  her  father-in-law's  sake,  much  to 
the  little  master's  disgust,  who  had  no  idea  but  that 
grandfathers  were  made  to  be  useful. 

Before  another  year  expired,  bringing  to  an  end 
'Celdy's  lease  of  the  Willet  farm,  old  Mrs.  Case  had 
gone  home  to  heaven  in  her  peaceful  sleep,  and  was 
mourned  as  a  sweet  and  quiet  example  of  Christian 
loveliness  must  be  mourned  always  ;  though  it  is  for  the 
world  and  ourselves  we  grieve,  not  for  those  whom 
death  restores  to  their  native  atmosphere.  Deacon 
Sparks  came  to  the  funeral  early,  and,  standing  by  the 
coffin  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  placid,  withered  face 
within  it,  was  heard  to  say  by  Hannah,  who  was  in  the 
next  room,  and  was  attracted  to  the  door  by  his  musing 
soliloquy  :  — 

"  Well !  the  Lord  has  his  own  ways  of  levellin'  stub 
born  folks.  I  wouldn't  keep  her  out  o'  want,  and  now 
she'll  be  in  the  upper  story  up  there.  She'll  be  a  saint, 
and  I  don't  know  as  I  shall  even  keep  the  door." 


ACELDAMA   SPARKS.  391 

Deacon  Sparks  gave  up  his  farm  to'Celdy,  to  have  and 
to  hold  and  to  work  his  own  way,  while  he  himself  "  lived 
on  his  interest,"  in  Hanover  phrase.  We  only  hope  our 
readers  may  have  been  able  to  live  on  the  same  fund  up 
to  this  point.  'Celdy's  profits  on  the  Willet  place  en 
abled  him  to  build  a  little  frame  house,  for  neither  his 
wishes  nor  his  judgment  permitted  him  to  accept  his 
father's  proposal  that  they  should  all  live  together. 
And  a  few  years  of  real  sunshine  gilded  what  remained 
of  Deacon  Sparks's  life  ;  but  he  never  quite  rebounded 
from  that  fever.  And  when  a  slow  consumption  at 
length  set  in,  and  gradually  beguiled  him  to  his  grave, 
he  had  many  long  talks  with  Mr.  Fletcher,  whom  he 
had  learned  both  to  admire  and  love  ;  and  in  one  of  the 
last  he  said  :  — 

"  I'm  a  real  changed  man  about  a  good  many  things, 
Parson  Fletcher,  an'  'Celdy's  done  it.  I  can't  think 
hard  of  folks's  religion  when  I  see  how  it's  worked  him, 
out  of  the  kiting-est  boy  ye  ever  see  into  a  real,  down 
right  good  man.  He's  better'n  I  am,  a  sight !  He  don't 
take  sech  an  amazin'  grip  o'  this  world  as  I  did.  There's 
suthin  better'n  dollars  to  him.  An'  seein'  him,  he's 
kinder  upset  all  my  old  hard  feelin's  about  New-School 
folks.  I  tell  ye  what,  Parson  Fletcher,  there  aint  no 
preachin'  like  livin' ;  an'  if  you  want  to  convert  the 
world,  jest  you  preach  to  folks  in  your  church  to  live 
as  though  they  b'lieved  the  Bible,  and  liked  to  b'lieve 
it.  Your  pretty  Sunday  talk  about  natur',  and  ph'los- 
ophy,  and  doctrines,  and  one  thing  and  'nother,  isn't 
goin'  to  bring  the  millennium  round  very  spry.  It  aint 
no  good  to  deny  the  Lord  six  days  in  your  works,  and 
be  entertained  spec'latin'  about  him  the  seventh.  The 
children  o'  this  world  are  too  knowin'  to  be  caught  with 


392  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

sech  chaff.  They've  got  the  Bible  as  well  as  professors, 
and  they  know  't  when  the  Lord  says  religion  is  doin' 
justly,  and  lovin'  mercy,  and  walkin'  humbly  with  God, 
that  a  man  who  don't  do  nary  one  of  them  things  nint 
religious,  if  he  is  deacon  in  three  churches,  and  shells 
out  to  all  the  societies  a-goin'. 

"  I've  ben  a  stumblin'-block  myself  long  enough  to 
know  jest  how't's  done  ;  and  the  fust  thing't  brought 
me  to  was  seem'  one  live  Christian,  an'  that's  'Celdy ; 
an'  you  done  it,  next  to  the  Lord,  ef  you  are,  a  New- 
School  man.  Besides,"  added  the  old  man,  after  a 
paroxysm  of  coughing  that  interrupted  his  speech  had 
passed  away,  "  I'm  too  near  to  Jordan  now  to  b'lieve 
there's  any  schools  on  t'other  side.  It's  jest  like  gettin' 
right  into  the  sunshine's  track  when  it's  settin',  an' 
seems  near,  close  to ;  you  can't  see  nothin'  partic'lar 
because  of  the  light  an'  glory  on't ;  all  you  know  how 
to  say  is,  it's  all  light,  and  brightness,  and  warm  all 
over  ;  there  aint  no  spots  ;  it's  all  together,  and  it's  all 
good." 

"Amen  !  "  said  Mr.  Fletcher,  bending  his  head,  and 
closing  the  rude  simplicity  of  the  old  man's  speech 
with  the  only  words  fit  to  finish  and  seal  it :  — 

"  'Where  there  is  neither  Greek  nor  Jew,  circumcision 
nor  uncircumcision,  Barbarian,  Scythian,  bond  nor  free  : 
but  Christ  is  all,  and  in  all.' " 


SALLATHIEL   BUMP'S  STOCKING.  393 


SALLATHIEL  BUMP'S  STOCKING. 


"  Sallathiel  Bump, 
He  sat  on  a  stump. 
I  hit  him  a  thump 
That  made  him  to  jump, 
And"  — 

"  OH  !  ow  !  ow  !  Stop  a-hitlin'  of  me,  C'lesty  !  I 
aint  doin'  nothin' ;  haint  a  feller  got  a  right  to  sing, 
I'd  like  to  know?" 

"  Depends  considerable  on  what  he  sings,"  said 
Celestia,  glowing  like  an  indignant  rose,  "  angry  and 
brave,"  as  she  stood  there  in  the  October  sunshine, 
with  a  milk-pail  in  one  hand,  and  the  palm  of  the  other 
pink  and  tingling  with  the  blows  she  had  just  bestowed 
on  Jehiel  Burr's  ears. 

"Well,  what  in  thunder's  a  feller  got  such  an  out 
landish  name  for,  if  he  don't  want  it  poked  fun  at  ? " 
muttered  the  aggrieved  youngster,  rubbing  his  scarlet 
ear  with  his  hand,  and  casting  black  glances  at  Celestia. 

"  If  you  was  half  as  good-lookiu'  or  as  good  as  he  is, 
you'd  be  glad  enough  to  take  his  name,  you  limb  !  I 
do'no*  as  Jehiel  Burr  is  much  better,  neither." 

"  Stan'  up  for  him,  don't  ye?"  sniffed  Jehiel,  com 
monly  called  Hi.  "  Well,  do !  I  see  ye  last  Sat'day 
night  under  that  apple-tree  a  " —  here  he  skipped  madly 
out  of  reach,  for  Celestia's  firm  hand  descended,  onty 
just  escaping  his  ears  again  ;  and,  feeling  that  discretion 


394  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

was  better  than  valor,  he  fled  to  the  barn  and  sung  his 
doggerel  there  in  safety  ;  but  poor  Celestia  carried  her 
milk-pail  round  to  the  sunny  stoop  of  the  kitchen,  and, 
having  tilted  it  at  just  the  right  angle  to  catch  the  sun, 
she  sat  down  on  the  steps,  flung  her  gingham  apron 
over  her  head  and  began  to  cry  noiselessly.  In  this 
moist  state  her  mother  found  her  as  she  stepped  out  to 
hang  up  a  dishcloth  in  the  air. 

"  Why,  C'lesty  !  "  she  asked  ;  "what  under  the  can 
opy  ails  3Te?  What  are  ye  takin'  on  about?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  said  the  girl,  as  women  always  say. 

"  Well,  nothing's  easy  mended,"  answered  the 
mother,  having  good  reasons  of  her  own  for  not  asking 
Celestia's  confidence  ;  indeed,  she  knew  enough  of  the 
trouble  in  her  girl's  heart  to  be  pretty  sure  these  tears 
were  but  its  outlet  and  relief ;  and  she  knew,  too,  from 
long  experience,  that  sympathy  is  not  always  the  best 
thing  for  trouble  that  is  inevitable,  and  the  meek,  weak, 
patient  woman  had  been  Jehiel  Burr  the  elder's  wife 
so  many  years  that  she  regarded  his  will  quite  as 
powerful  and  sure  as  the  will  of  that  higher  power 
whom  she  called  Providence, 

The  fact  was  that  old  Jehiel  had  made  up  his  mind 
that  Celestia  should  marry  the  school-master  at  Pomp- 
ton  Academy,  and  Celestia  had  made  up  her  mind  to 
marry  Sallathiel  Burnp. 

There  is  very  little  in  a  name  when  one  falls  in  love 
with  a  tall,  handsome  young  fellow,  kind-hearted,  well 
made,  with  the  handsomest  steel-blue  eyes  you  can 
think  of ;  a  dimple  in  his  chin,  and  teeth  white  as  rows 
of  corn  kernels  under  the  green  husk  of  the  fresh  cob. 
All  these  good  gifts  belonged  to  Celestia's  lover;  but 
her  father  did  not  pay  such  respect  to  them  as  they 


SALLATIIIEL   BUMP'S    STOCKING.  395 

deserved.  In  his  eyes  Sallathiel  —  I  should  like  to 
leave  out  one  1  in  the  name,  but  he  never  did  — Salla 
thiel,  I  say,  had  two  glaring  faults  ;  he  was  poor,  and 
he  was  born  and  bred  an  Episcopalian.  If  Jehiel  Burr 
had  started  the  old  war-cry  against  popery  and  prelacy 
he  would  have  added  poverty  to  complete  the  triad  ;  he 
hated  all  three.  He  was  a  rigid  sectarian  of  his  own 
sort,  and  despised  every  other  form  of  religion  ;  and  to 
be  poor  was  to  be  "shiftless," — the  New  England 
unpardonable  sin. 

Moreover,  Celestia  had  a  little  money  of  her  own, 
just  enough  to  add  another  charm  in  the  eyes  of  some 
people  to  those  with  which  nature  had  endowed  her ; 
and  ever}'  poor  man  who  looked  at  her  was  considered 
by  her  father  to  be  rather  captivated  with  her  money 
than  herself.  But  Celestia  felt  in  her  heart  that 
Sallathiel  loved  her,  and  not  her  dollars  ;  possibly  she 
judged  him  by  herself,  as  we  all  judge  others,  but  this 
time  her  opinion  was  right :  this  lover  would  have  laid 
his  heart  at  her  feet  with  just  as  much  alacrity  and 
passion  if  her  Grandmother  Green  had  left  her  five 
thousand  cents,  instead  of  five  thousand  dollars. 

Not  content  with  thwarting  this  true  love,  however, 
Jehiel  Burr  was  also  determined  that  his  daughter 
should  marry  as  he  pleased,  and  had  already  deter 
mined  that  Mr.  Algernon  Sydney  Howard  Middleton, 
principal  of  Pompton  Academy,  should  be  his  son-in- 
law.  Here  was  a  man  after  his  own  heart :  orthodox 
as  Calvin,  learned  enough  to  be  writing  a  wonderful 
work  on  higher  mathematics,  powerful  in  prayer-meet 
ing,  setting  his  face,  not  exactly  as  a  flint,  but  rather 
as  a  flour-pudding,  against  amusements,  and  rattling 
off  the  Shorter  Catechism  from  his  tongue's  end  on  all 


396  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

occasions  as  fluently  as  a  Tartar  praying-machine.  Of 
course  Celestia  hated  him ;  and  not  without  other 
reason  than  his  pretensions  to  her  favor.  He  was  very 
fat,  —  fat  as  to  his  colorless,  puffy  cheeks,  as  well  as 
his  person,  which  possessed  the  even  symmetry  of  a 
large  chestnut  worm  ;  and  his  little,  beady,  black  eyes 
gleamed  from  under  the  gold-rimmed  glasses  perched 
on  his  thick,  flat,  upturned  nose,  with  a  glare  by  no 
means  heavenly ;  while  his  protuberant  lips  wore  an 
expression  of  conceit  and  impertinence  almost  insuffer 
able  to  beholders.  His  gait  was  a  pompous  swagger, 
and  the  stove-pipe  hat  lilted  on  his  bullet  head  added 
another  expression  of  character  to  his  figure.  He  was 
vain  as  a  peacock,  and  could  not  believe  that  any  girl 
could  resist  his  charms  ;  indeed  he  felt  that  he  stooped 
from  a  proud  eminence  to  address  Celestia  Burr,  and 
he  made  her  feel  it.  But  for  that  five  thousand  dollars 
of  hers  he  knew,  and  she  knew,  that  he  never  would 
have  condescended  so  far.  Hi,  a  real  little  pickle, 
hated  the  school-master  with  all  his  heart,  and  liked 
Sallathiel,  but  he  loved  to  tease  Celestia ;  it  tickled  his 
very  soul  to  see  the  angry  crimson  rise  in  her  smooth, 
dark  cheek,  her  beautiful  soft  eyes  flash  from  their 
midnight  depths  with  fire,  and  her  rich  red  lips  quiver 
with  distress.  He  was  a  boy,  and,  if  all  men  are  born 
free  and  equal,  as  our  glorious  Constitution  plausibly 
declares,  all  boys  are  born  savages.  Really  Hi  loved 
his  sister  as  well  as  anybody,  but  he  tyrannized  over 
her  and  his  mother  because  his  father  was  a  tyrant  to 
him,  and  instinctively  he  imitated  the  parent  he  feared  ; 
it  was  a  curious  sort  of  relief  to  pass  the  terror  along. 

But  when  Jehiel  Burr  resolved  that  Celestia  should 
marry  Master  Middleton  he  did  not  remember  that  she 


SALLATHIEL   BUMP'S  STOCKING.  397 

was  his  daughter.  Heredity  is  a  troublesome  thing 
sometimes.  Men  forget  that  their  children  generally 
share  their  own  traits,  and  Celestia  had  quite  as  strong 
a  will  as  her  father.  In  her  firm  chin,  on  her  low, 
straight  brow,  in  the  darkness  of  her  great,  steady 
eyes,  lay  dormant  a  strength  he  did  not  dream  of, 
waiting  only  for  an  emergency  to  call  it  out. 

Now  Grandmother  Green  had  the  forethought  to 
ordain  in  her  will  that  Celestia  should  not  have  her 
money  at  all  if  she  married  before  she  was  twenty-one, 
but  at  that  age  she  should  come  into  full  possession  of 
it  with  her  other  legal  rights  ;  and  this  October  after 
noon  she  was  still  twenty.  Her  birthday  was  coming 
on  Christmas  day,  though  she  knew  about  that  festival 
only  from  the  pleasant  stories  Sallathiel  Bump  had 
poured  into  her  ears  concerning  his  own  childhood. 

His  father  and  mother  had  both  been  of  English 
descent,  and  their  form  of  religion  was  an  inheritance. 
Poor  as  they  were  no  Christmas  had  ever  passed  with 
out  some  observance  in  their  family,  some  decoration 
about  the  tall  clock,  some  festoon  of  evergreen  about 
the  old  rusty  halberd  that  lay  across  two  spikes  above 
the  fireplace,  and  had  a  tradition  invisibly  tied  to  it, 
longer  by  far  and  more  sempiternal  than  the  ground- 
pine  streamers  floating  from  its  sharp  pike-end. 
Sallathiel  always  hung  up  his  stocking  over-night,  and 
always  found  something,  if  only  a  home-made  top  and 
home-knit  mittens,  distending  its  blue  ribbed  leg,  and 
if  there  was  but  one  mince-pie  falling  to  their  lot  in  the 
whole  year  it  was  served  for  their  Christmas  dinner. 

It  was  a  sort  of  romance  to  Celestia,  this  cheerful 
observance,  this  happy  religion.  Her  clean,  bare, 
silent  home  knew  ao  feast-days  but  the  annual  Thanks- 


398  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

giving,  which  meant  to  them  a  tedious  political  sermon 
from  Parson  Pitcher,  an  inordinate  dinner,  at  which 
Master  Middleton,  for  the  last  two  years,  had  gorged 
himself  to  repletion,  leering  at  Celestia  like  an  enam 
ored  boa-constrictor  between  vast  mouthfuls  of  turkey, 
onions,  and  pie;  and  after  which  "cold  bits"  from 
the  overloaded  table  were  their  daily  food  for  at  least 
a  week. 

During  these  last  six  months,  urged  by  parental 
encouragement  and  the  fact  that  Celestia  was  nearly 
twenty-one,  Master  Middleton  had  "  courted"  her  with 
unfaltering  assiduity.  Every  Sunday  night  found  him 
seated  on  the  big  rocker  by  the  sitting-room  hearth 
when  fires  began  to  burn  there,  or  by  the  window  when 
summer  reigned,  his  fat  pomposity  seeming  to  fill  and 
overflow  the  small  apartment,  and  his  thick-skinned 
conceit  keeping  him  complacent  under  all  Celestia's 
coolness  or  angry  rebuffs. 

But  Sallathiel  had  no  entrance  to  the  house.  When 
he  met  her  it  was  by  stealth,  under  the  fragrant, 
flowery  apple-trees  of  the  orchard,  or  Sunday  noons  in 
the  pine  grove  back  of  the  graveyard,  when  her  father 
was  grinding  out  the  conjectural  histor}"  of  Melchisedec, 
the  problems  of  election,  infant  damnation,  free-will 
and  responsibility,  or  the  war  record  of  the  Maccabees, 
to  his  yawning  Bible-class,  and  thought  C'lesty  had 
gone  home  to  get  her  lunch,  or  to  a  noon  prayer-meet 
ing.  Hi  kept  them  both  in  terror,  for  he  was  ubiquitous  ; 
and,  if  he  did  not  know  when  and  where  they  met  every 
time,  he  said  he  did,  which  was  quite  as  unpleasant  to 
the  lovers. 

To-day  Celestia  had  reason  for  her  tears  of  vexation 
when  the  little  rascal  intimated  he  had  been  a  witness 


SALLATHIEL   BUMP'S  STOCKING.  399 

of  their  last  interview,  for  it  bad  been  an  important 
one.  She  had  stolen  away  to  the  orchard,  while  her 
father  dozed  by  the  kitchen  fire,  in  obedience  to  a  word 
from  Sallathiel,  as  he  passed  her  on  the  road  two  days 
before  on  her  way  to  a  quilting. 

"  C'lesty,"  said  the  handsome  fellow,  after  the  shy 
greetings  had  passed  between  them,  "  that  feller  Mid- 
dleton  's  a-boastin'  and  tellin'  round  how  that  you're 
a-goin'  to  marry  him  sure,  come  New  Year,  and  I  can't 
Stan'  it  no  more." 

"  I  don't  know  as  his  sayin'  of  it  makes  it  sure,"  said 
Celestia,  with  a  bewitching  little  laugh. 

"No,  I  do'no'  as  it  does,  but  it's  everlastin'  hard, 
C'lesty,  to  look  on  and  see  him  courtin'  of  you  when  I 
can't  put  in  a  look  except  on  the  sly.  Now,  why  won't 
you  say  the  word,  and  we'll  get  Jim  Perkins's  fast  horse 
and  click  it  over  the  line,  and  be  married  without  any 
to-do  about  it  ?  " 

"  I  like  that!"  said  the  girl,  meaning  she  did  not 
like  it  at  all.  "No,  sir!  when  I  git  married  'twon't 
be  over  no  State  line,  as  though  I  was  ashamed  on't. 
Besides,  Sallathiel,  I  should  lose  all  Granny  Green's 
money." 

"  I  don't  care  an  individooal  darn  if  you  do  !  "  said 
Sallathiel,  flushing  hotly  in  the  moonlight.  "I  don't 
want  your  money,  nor  I  never  did.  I  want  you  ;  and 
I  am  afeared  your  pa'll  set  to  and  pester  you  so,  and 
make  it  so  hot  for  you  to  hum,  that  —  well " — 

Here  he  choked.  The  prospect  was  too  hard. 
Celestia  blazed  up  at  once. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  a  fust-class  fool,  Sallathiel 
Bump?  Do  you  think  I'm  sech  a  rag-baby  that  any 
man  't  ever  was  born  could  make  me  marry  that  feller? 


400  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

If  you  do,  you're  entire  mistook.  I'd  give  him  lamb- 
kill  before  I'd  marry  him." 

"  No,  you  wouldn't,"  said  Sallathiel,  rather  startled 
by  the  flashing  eyes  of  his  sweetheart.  "  You  wouldn't 
hurt  a  fly,  C'lesty.  I  know  ye." 

"  I'd  kill  a  snake,  though  !  "  she  retorted,  but  it  was 
an  aside. 

Sallathiel  went  on  :  — 

"  I  can  work,  and  I  will  work  for  my  wife.  I've 
got  two  stout  good  arms,  and  I've  got  the  old  home 
stead  and  four  acres  to't.  We  couldn't  starve  no 
way,  C'lesty.  Don't,  don't  wait  for  that  confounded 
money ! " 

Celestia  laughed. 

"  Never  you  mind,  dear.  I  shall  wait  for  the 
money.  I  want  it ;  but  that  Middleton  feller  shan't 
have  it,  not  a  red  cent.  Besides,  I  don't  want  to  go 
out  of  the  State  to  be  married  ;  it  aint  seemly,  and 
if  I'm  twenty-one  I  don't  need  to.  Can't  you  have 
patience  ?  " 

"  It's  everlastin'  hard  to,"  sighed  Sallathiel,  looking 
at  the  lovely  upturned  face  in  front  of  him.  "  But 
there's  one  thing,  C'lesty.  I've  got  as  good  a  right  to 
come  to  your  folks's  house  Sunday  evenin's  as  he  has, 
and  I'm  a-comin'." 

"  AV-e-e-11,"  she  answered,  doubtfully,  not  without  a 
thrill  of  consciousness  that  her  master  would  some  time 
grow  out  of  her  lover,  "  you  know  father'll  make  it 
real  unpleasant  for  37ou,  S'lathil,  and  that  other  feller'll 
be  worse." 

u  I  aint  afraid  of  'em,"  said  he,  calmly,  closing  his 
big,  shapely  hands  into  ominous  fists  as  he  spoke,  with 
masculine  instinct.  "  I  can't  come  to-morrow  night, 


SALLATHIEL  BUMP'S  STOCKING.  401 

for  I'm  goin'  to  set  up  with  old  Perkins.  He's  had  a 
stroke,  and  I  told  Jim  I'd  come  and  spell  'em.  But 
look  out  for  me  next  Sunday  evenin'  for  sure  as 
shootin'  I  shall  come."  And  with  that  they  parted. 

It  was  Saturday  again  when  Celestia  caught  Hi  sing 
ing  his  ditty  about  Sallathiel  Bump's  unfortunate 
name,  and  this  was  the  one  straw  that  quite  broke 
down  her  vaunted  courage.  She  had  worried  all  the 
week  about  that  coming  Sunday  evening.  It  was  right, 
quite  right,  that  Sallathiel  should  assert  himself.  Her 
father  had  never  forbidden  him  to  come  to  the  house 
further  than  grim  looks  and  bitter  words  went ;  and  it 
was  owing  to  her  own  entreaties  that  he  had  consented 
to  meet  her  elsewhere,  for,  like  most  women,  Celestia 
dreaded  a  domestic  storm.  Alas,  how  many  mean 
nesses,  subterfuges,  lies,  have  been  forced  upon  trem 
bling  wives,  sisters,  and  daughters,  in  order  to  avert 
these  uncivil  wars  in  the  household  !  How  rare  is  the 
woman  who  dares  adhere  to  facts  in  the  face  of  mas 
culine  fury !  Celestia  was  not  of  that  exceptional 
sort.  She  looked  forward  to  this  coming  encounter 
with  dread,  and  when  Hi  added  his  small  jeer  to  the 
weight  already  oppressing  her,  what  could  she  do  but 
cry?  But,  tears  or  no,  the  unlucky  Sunday  came; 
and  when  meeting,  Bible-class,  and  the  late  dinner 
were  over,  old  Burr  turned  to  Celestia,  as  she  passed 
through  the  kitchen  with  the  sitting-room  lamp,  and 
growled  :  — 

"  Look-a-here,  C'lesty,  I  want  ye  to  understand  that 
you  aint  a-goin'  to  keep  Master  Middleton  on  ten 
ter-hooks  no  longer.  You've  hed  him  a-danglin'  long 
enough,  and  he's  a-comin'  for  his  answer  to-night ; 
you  let  him  hev  it,  do  ye  hear?" 


402  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

Celestia's  courage  returned.  She  looked  her  father 
square  in  the  face. 

"  Yes  ;  he'll  get  it !  "  she  said,  curtly  and  sharply. 

Jehiel  stared  at  her  with  dull  surprise  in  his  cold, 
angry  eyes. 

"  Look  out,  gal !  he  nor  me  won't  stan'  no  non 
sense." 

"Nor  me,  neither!"  she  said,  looking  back  at  him 
as  she  went  through  the  door. 

The  old  man  glared  after  her,  a  little  doubtful,  but 
still  confident  of  his  own  coercive  powers,  and  waited 
for  the  master's  arrival.  Celestia,  too,  waited.  Never 
had  she  looked  lovelier  than  to-night.  Her  dark  red 
woollen  dress,  with  its  delicate  white  frills,  became  her 
well,  her  cheek  glowed  with  excitement,  and  in  the 
coiled  masses  of  her  night-black  hair  she  had  fastened, 
with  instinctive  taste,  a  graceful  spray  of  golden-rod, 
and  clasped  another  in  the  tiny  breastpin  at  her  throat. 

Her  eyes  were  brighter  than  soft,  something  defiant 
looked  out  from  them ;  but  when  Master  Algernon 
Sydne}'  Howard  Midclleton  waddled  into  the  front 
parlor,  and  put  his  shiny  hat  down  on  a  chair  near  by 
the  door,  he  only  perceived  her  beauty,  and  simpered 
to  think  how  soon  she  would  be  his  own.  Celestia  was 
cool  and  haughty.  She  seated  Master  Middletou  on 
the  old  sofa,  whose  feeble  springs  creaked  as  he  depos 
ited  his  weight  on  the  slippery  horsehair  surface  ;  but 
he  did  not  mind  that :  he  had  no  consciousness  of  small 
things,  he  was  going  to  make  the  final  plunge,  and 
emerge  triumphant.  But,  just  as  the  early  common 
places  of  weather  and  season  were  over,  a  confident 
knock  was  heard  at  the  outer  door.  Country-fashion, 
Celestia  answered  it,  just  in  time  to  prevent  her 


SALLATHIEL  BUMP'S  STOCKING.  403 

* 

father's  thorough  rousing  from  his  dose  by  the  kitchen 
fire.  A  repetition  would  have  brought  him  out ;  as  it  was 
he  thought  a  rat  had  disturbed  him  and  nodded  again. 
But  it  was  something  worse  than  rats, —  it  was  hand 
some,  happy,  assured  Sallathiel  Bump,  who  walked  into 
the  parlor  beside  Celestia,  blushing  divinely,  though 
her  heart  beat  almost  to  suffocation.  Algernon 
'  Sydney  Howard  Middleton  stared  with  beady  eyes  at 
the  intruder,  but  said  "  Good-evening,"  in  the  hope 
that  this  was  but  a  call,  and  determined  to  outstay 
him  ;  a  determination  all  in  vain.  There  were  awful 
pauses  in  the  conversation  ;  there  were  essays  at  talk 
on  the  school-master's  part  that  fell  dead  to  the  ground, 
and  sallies  from  Sallathiel  that  were  supported  by 
Celestia  with  giggling  response  or  interested  question. 
Master  Middleton  grew  furious,  yet  had  sense  enough 
left  to  appreciate  the  situation.  "When  the  clock  struck 
ten  he  took  up  his  shiny  hat  and  said  good-night. 

"Going  my  way,  Mister  Bump?"  he  remarked 
blandly  to  Sallathiel. 

"Not  jest  yet,"  was  the  exasperating  answer,  and 
the  master  left  the  lovers  together.  Father  Burr  long 
since  had  gone  to  his  bed,  secure  that  his  plans  were 
all  going  on  as  he  desired,  and  Celestia  and  Sallathiel 
sat  up  in  that  stiff,  chill  parlor  till  midnight,  happy  as 
they  ought  to  have  been ;  happier,  no  doubt,  because 
they  knew  their  bliss  was  precarious,  and  Master  Mid 
dleton  not  always  to  be  so  balked. 

Not  he !  Scarce  a  day  had  passed  before  he  com 
plained  to  Jehiel  Burr  of  his  disappointment. 

"  I'll  fix  it,"  said  the  furious  parent,  and  forthwith 
he  hunted  up  Sallathiel,  and  forbid  him  to  enter  his 
house  or  speak  to  his  daughter. 


404  THE  SPHIXX'S   CHILDREN. 

"  If  you  wa'n't  her  pa,  and  an  eld  feller  to  boot,  I'd 
thrash  ye  to  strings  !  "  said  the  outraged  lover. 

"  Do  !  oh,  do,  now,"  sneered  Jehiel.  "  I'd  jest  like 
to  tackle  ye,  young  feller !  Maybe  I  be  old,  but  I'm 
gritty  as  sin  ;  jest  you  try." 

"  I'd  despise  to  tech  ye,  Mister  Burr ;  but  I  will  say 
one  thing,  an'  thet  is,  as  sure  as  I  live  I'll  marry  C'lesty 
in  spite  of  you." 

And  with  this  defiance  Sallathiel  went,  leaving 
Father  Burr  choking  and  sputtering  with  rage,  which 
he  drove  home  to  pour  out  on  Celestia. 

The  girl  shut  her  teeth  and  said  nothing.  It  was 
but  a  few  weeks  now  to  her  birthday ;  her  mind  was 
made  up.  Master  Middleton  came  again,  and  this 
time  without  interruption  ;  but,  to  his  disgust  and  sur 
prise,  when  he  laid  his  heart  and  hand  at  Celestia's 
feet  she  resolutely  refused  him.  His  face  grew  tallow 
white,  his  little  black  eyes  glowed  red  with  rage,  his 
upturned  nose  quivered  ;  he  looked  like  a  fat  fiend,  and 
Celestia's  deep  contempt  inspired  her  expressive  coun 
tenance. 

"  But  your  father  said  you  should,"  he  gasped  and 
stammered. 

"  And  I  say  I  shall  not,"  was  her  calm,  cool  answer. 

"  I  believe  it's  a  law  of  Christianity  that  children 
shall  obey  their  parents,"  he  retorted,  taking  high 
moral  ground. 

"  I  shan't  never  obey  nobody  to  do  wrong,"  replied 
Celestia,  trumping  his  trick. 

"  Well,  I  s'pose  you're  whifflety,  like  other  girls, 
Celestia ;  but  I've  got  your  pa's  consent,  and  I'll  give 
you  time  to  change  your  mind.  I'm  a  patient  man  ;  I 
can  wait,  for  I'm  sure  you'll  come  round." 


SALLATHIEL   BUMP'S  STOCKING.  405 

"  Never  !  "  said  the  angry  girl.  "  I  wouldn't  marry 
you,  Master  Middleton,  if  there  wa'n't  another  man  in 
the  created  universe  !  " 

She  said  these  indignant  words  as  she  lighted  him  to 
the  door,  looking  so  handsome  in  her  excitement  that 
the  master's  feelings  got  the  better  of  him.  He  turned 
on  the  sill,  threw  his  arms  about  her  and  tried  to  snatch 
a  kiss.  Celestia  screamed  and  dashed  the  lamp  at  his 
face  ;  a  rough  hand  seized  him  by  the  collar,  hustled 
him  down  on  to  the  gravel  path,  and  the  foot  that  cor 
responded  to  that  hand  dismissed  him  ignominiously 
from  the  premises,  too  confounded  and  out  of  breath 
to  do  more  than  skip  along  with  an  alacrity  uncomfort 
able  enough  to  a  man  of  his  avoirdupois,  and  only  able 
to  gasp :  — 

"Ow!  oh!  ow!" 

While  an  elfish  giggle  from  the  gate-post  preluded 
another  stave  of  Hi's  impromptu  ditty :  — 

"  Sallathiel  Bump 
Hit  the  master  a  thump, 
And  how  he  did  jump 
All  up  in  a  hump! 
Oh  my !  " 

"  Hi  Burr  !  hold  your  tongue  !  "  whispered  Celestia, 
who  had  stayed  to  pick  up  the  pieces  of  her  lamp-chim 
ney  on  the  steps. 

"  Taint  me  !  "  shrieked  Hi,  as  he  disappeared  round 
the  corner. 

Perhaps  Sallathiel  did  not  further  his  cause  by  this 
outburst.  The  master  could  not  bring  suit  against  him 
for  assault,  for  there  were  no  witnesses,  nor  did  he  even 
see  the  face  of  his  assailant ;  but  he  uttered  vast  threats 
of  vengeance,  at  which  Sallathiel  laughed  ;  and  he  still 


406  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

proceeded  to  persecute  Celestia  with  weekly  visits  on 
the  Sunday  evenings  sacred  in  New  England  to  court 
ships.  Besides  this,  her  father  assumed  that  the  mar 
riage  was  a  fixed  affair ;  and  her  mother,  while  she 
weakl}"  cried  and  sniffed  about  the  house,  dared  not 
offer  one  word  of  comfort  or  help  to  Celestia.  As  the 
year  drew  near  its  close  the  girl  became  conscious  that 
things  were  closing  up  about  her.  Her  father  gave  up 
his  Bible-class  at  noon,  and  brought  the  family  home 
to  lunch.  He  would  not  let  her  go  to  quiltings  or  to 
evening  meetings  any  more,  and  every  night  he  locked 
the  front  door,  put  the  key  in  his  pocket,  and  sat  in  the 
kitchen  till  midnight,  so  that  no  one  should  go  out  or 
come  in  without  his  knowledge. 

Celestia's  heart  sank  ;  for  weeks  she  had  not  seen 
Sallathiel,  and  she  began  to  feel  that  despair  which  the 
native  impatience  of  woman  accelerates  before  it  is 
inevitable. 

But  Sallathiel  was  not  idle  meantime.  With  a  lover's 
instinct  he  cultivated  a  friendship  with  Hi ;  he  let  him 
gather  the  chestnuts  off  the  big  tree  behind  his  little 
red  house,  a  tree  noted  in  Pompton  for  its  large  and 
abundant  nuts ;  he  took  him  hunting  Saturdays ; 
helped  him  with  advice  as  to  his  water-wheel ;  and  had 
many  a  laugh  with  him  over  Master  Middleton's  alert 
departure  from  Jehiel  Burr's  door  on  that  Sunday 
evening. 

Hi  grew  very  fond  of  Sallathiel,  and  correspondingly 
pitiful  of  Celestia's  hard  case.  Hi  kept  his  eyes  and 
ears  open,  and  reported  the  condition  of  things  to  the 
lover  with  great  zeal ;  it  was  so  pleasant  to  feel  of  im 
portance  ! 

Christinas  came  very  near.     It  was  only  two  days 


SALLATIIIEL   BUMP'S  STOCKING.  407 

before  its  arrival  that  Hi  followed  Celestia  into  the 
pantry,  on  a  pretext  of  seeing  that  she  put  some 
ginger-snaps  as  well  as  pie  into  his  dinner-pail,  and 
whispered  to  her  :  — 

"  Say,  C'lesty  !  I  heered  pa  a-sayin'  to  ma  last  night 
when  you  went  down  suller  for  th'  apples  an'  cider, 
thet  come  your  birthday  he  was  a-goin'  to  tell  ye  to 
clear  out  o'  here  for  good  or  marry  Master  Middletou. 
I  was  up-stairs  a-harkin'  an'  a-peekin'  through  the  pipe- 
hole,  for  I  'xpected  something  or  'nother  was  up.  Ma 
said,  kinder  cry  in',  thet  you  wouldn't  never  marry  him, 
she  was  af eared  ;  and  then  pa  fetched  his  fist  down 
and  sed  he'd  hev  the  minister  here  that  mornin'  't  you 
was  comin'  to  your  mone}T  and  marry  ye  right  up.  I 
do'no's  he  could,  an'  do'no'  as  he  could  ;  but  I  thought 
you'd  oughter  know.  Land,  there's  pa  !  Put  in  them 
things  quick,  C'lesty.  Don't  keep  a  feller  waitin'  all 
day."  And  with  an  aggrieved  air  he  took  up  his  pail 
and  hurried  off. 

Celestia,  trembling  and  pale,  went  upstairs  to  her 
chamber.  Could  it  be,  after  all,  that  her  father  had 
such  power  over  her?  Had  she  mistaken  her  own 
rights  under  the  law?  There  was  nobody  to  advise  or 
reassure  her.  She  fell  into  an  unreasoning  terror. 

"What  if,  after  all,  it  was  in  her  father's  power  to 
make  her  marry  Master  Middleton?  She  shuddered  at 
the  thought.  If  only  she  could  get  to  Sallathiel !  At 
last  it  occurred  to  her  that  Hi  could  perhaps  carry  him 
a  letter.  But  if  her  father  should  find  it  on  the  boy? 
She  sat  down  and  fell  to  thinking,  for  she  knew  no  one 
but  her  lover  could  help  her  in  this  strait ;  yet  how 
could  she  send  and  word  the  letter,  so  that  if  it  fell 
into  other  hands  it  need  not  betray  her?  Woman's  wit 


408  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

at  last  came  to  the  rescue.  She  remembered  Salla- 
thiel's  stories  of  his  Christmas  gifts  in  the  old  time. 
She  knew  he  was  now  at  work  at  a  saw-mill  just 
beyond  the  village,  and  that  it  was  but  a  little  farther 
for  Hi  to  go  to  school  by  the  lane  past  his  red  house  ; 
so  she  wrote  him  a  note,  instructing  Hi  to  push  it 
under  the  crack  of  Sallathiel's  door  the  next  morning, 
and  went  about  her  work  with  a  lighter  heart. 

Sallathiel  himself  was  pleased  enough  with  the  brief 
epistle  which  he  found  in  his  kitchen  as  he  entered  the 
door,  though  all  it  said  was  :  — 

To-morrow  night  is  Christmas  Eve,  that  you  used  to  tell 
about.  Hang  your  biggest  stocking  outside  of  your  door, 
instead  of  up  chimney,  and  see  what  you'll  get.  C. 

It  seemed  to  link  a  happy  memory  to  a  blessed 
future  that  Celestia  should  think  of  sending  him  a 
Christmas  gift,  and  remember  about  the  stocking,  for 
years  had  gone  by  since  the  childish  custom  had  been 
observed  for  him  ;  and  it  was  with  a  saddened  gladness 
that  he  obeyed  her  wish,  going  late  out  of  the  door  to 
nail  up  on  the  casing  a  long  blue  yarn  stocking  he  had 
hunted  up  in  his  mother's  chest;  the  very  stocking  — 
one  of  his  father's  best  pair — that  had  always  been 
used  in  his  childhood  for  this  purpose. 

It  was  early  dawn  when  he  awoke,  after  a  night  of 
dreams,  in  which  his  mother  and  his  sweetheart  seemed 
both  to  visit  him,  with  smiling  faces.  He  thought  he 
heard  steps  on  the  crisp  snow  outside,  and  with  the  old 
boyish  eagerness  sprung  up,  hastily  dressed  himself  in 
the  pale,  cold  light  that  stole  into  his  little  window, 
and  lifted  the  latch  to  explore  his  stocking  for  the  ex 
pected  love-token. 


SALLATHIEL   BUMP'S  STOCKING.  409 

Did  he  dream  still?  There  stood  Celestia  herself, 
one  arm  deep  down  in  the  blue  stocking,  the  other 
hand  holding  her  shawl  close  about  the  blushing,  tear 
ful,  dimpling  face. 

"  My  Christmas  present!  "  said  Sallathiel,  in  a  sort 
of  rapture,  drawing  her  into  the  tiny  kitchen,  and  put 
ting  her  into  his  mother's  chair. 

Truly  it  was  Celestia  whom  he  found  in  his  stocking  ! 
Desperate  at  the  prospect  before  her  she  had  stolen 
into  Hi's  room  before  light,  not  daring  to  open  even 
the  closet  door  to  find  a  bonnet ;  but,  as  the  bedroom 
doors  were  always  left  ajar  in  winter,  she  reached  the 
boy's  window  silently,  managed  to  lift  it  without  wak 
ing  him,  since  he  had  long  ago  taken  out  the  spring  in 
order  to  make  his  own  exits,  and,  as  it  opened  on  a  shed 
roof  slanting  to  a  few  feet  from  the  ground,  she  had 
dropped  off  into  a  snow-drift,  and  made  her  way  by 
the  gray  light  to  Sallathiel's  door. 

Luckily  there  was  an  early  service  in  the  small  Epis 
copal  chapel  at  Pompton,  for  the  rector  lived  ten  miles 
away,  and  did  duty  in  this  mission  chapel  as  well  as 
in  his  own  church,  and  when  Sallathiel  had  lit  the  fire 
in  his  stove,  and  brewed  Celestia  a  cup  of  tea  with  awk 
ward  devotion,  he  locked  the  door  on  her  lest  some  one 
might  track  her  thither,  and,  hurrying  to  Jim  Perkins's 
house,  borrowed  his  buggy,  his  fast  horse,  and  his  moth 
er's  Sunday  bonnet,  to  Jim's  speechless  astonishment. 

So  before  three  people  had  gathered  to  this  early 
service,  just  as  the  tinkling  bell  begun  its  summons, 
Celestia  was  made  Sallathiel's  wife ;  and  to  this  hour, 
though,  like  us  all,  they  have  endured  life's  evils  as 
well  as  its  joys,  Sallathiol  still  blesses  the  Christmas- 
day  when  he  hung  up  his  stocking. 


410  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 


SALLY    PARSONS'S    DUTY. 


THE  sun  that  shines  on  eastern  Massachusetts, 
specially  on  buttercups  and  dandelions,  and  providen 
tially  on  potatoes,  looks  down  on  no  greener  fields  in 
these  days  than  it  saw  in  the  spring  of  1775,  fenced 
in  and  fenced  off  by  the  zigzag  snake-fences  of  'Zekiel 
Parsons's  farm. 

"  About  this  time,"  as  almanacs  say,  young  orchards 
were  misty  with  buds,  red  maples  on  the  highway  shone 
in  the  clear  light,  and  a  row  of  bright  tin  pans  at  the 
shed  door  of  the  farm-house  testified  to  a  sturdy  arm 
and  skilful  hand  within,  —  arm  and  hand  both  belong 
ing  to  no  less  a  person  than  Miss  Sally,  'Zekiel  Parsons's 
only  daughter,  aud  the  prettiest  girl  in  Westbury :  a 
short,  sturdy,  rosy  little  maid,  with  hair  like  a  ripe 
chestnut  shell,  bright  blue  eyes  full  of  mischief,  and 
such  a  sunny,  healthy,  common-sense  character  one  is 
almost  afraid  to  tell  of  it,  it  is  so  out  of  date  now. 

But  of  what  use  is  it  to  describe  her?  How  can  I 
impress  upon  moderns  how  enlivening  and  refreshing 
was  her  aspect,  as  she  spun,  or  scoured  pans,  in  a 
linsey-woolsey  petticoat  and  white  short-gown,  wearing 
her  pretty  curls  in  a  crop?  George  Tucker  knew  it  all 
without  telling  ;  and  so  did  half  a  dozen  of  the  West- 
bury  boys,  who  haunted  the  picket  fence  round  'Zekiel's 
garden  every  moonlight  night  in  summer,  or  scraped 


SALL  Y  PARSONS 'S  DUTY.  411 

their  feet  by  the  half-hour  together  on  his  door-step  in 
winter  evenings.  Sally  was  a  belle  ;  she  knew  it  and 
liked  it,  as  every  honest  girl  does, —  and  she  would 
have  been  a  belle  without  the  aid  of  her  father's  wide 
farm  and  pine-tree  shillings ;  for  she  was  fresh  and 
lovely,  with  a  spice  of  coquetry,  but  a  true  woman's 
heart  beneath  it  all. 

It  was  very  hard  to  discover  whom  Sally  Parsons 
favored  among  her  numerous  beaux.  Her  father 
seriously  inclined  to  George  Tucker ;  not  because  he 
was  rich,  —  for  'Zekiel  had  not  arrived  at  fashionable 
principles,  —  but  because  he  was  honest,  kind-hearted, 
and  reliable  ;  but  as  yet  Sally  showed  no  decided  pref 
erence  ;  time  and  the  hour  were  near,  but  not  in  sight. 

One  Sunday  night,  early  in  April,  after  the  nine- 
o'clock  bell  had  scattered  Sally's  admirers  far  and  wide, 
and  old  'Zekiel  sat  by  the  chimney-corner,  watching 
his  sister,  Aunt  Poll,  rake  up  the  rest  of  the  hickory 
log  in  the  ashes,  while  he  rubbed  away  sturdily  at  his 
feet,  holding  in  one  hand  the  blue  yarn  stockings, 
"  wrought  by  no  hand,  as  you  may  guess,"  but  that  of 
Salty  ;  the  talk,  that  had  momentarily  died  away,  began 
again,  and  with  a  glance  at  Long  Snapps,  —  a  lank, 
shrewd-faced  old  sailor,  who,  to  use  his  own  speech, 
had  "  cast  anchor  'longside  of  an  old  ship-met  fur  a 
spell,  bein'  bound  fur  his  own  cabin  up  in  Lenox," — 
'Zekiel  spoke  after  this  wise  :  — 

"  I  expect,  Long,  you  sailors  hev  a  drefful  hard, 
onsartin  time  navigatin',  don't  ye?" 

"  Well,  skipper!  that  are  depen's  on  folks.  I  don't 
calc'lale  to  hev  no  sort  of  a  hard  time,  ef  I  don't  get 
riled  with  it ;  but  these  times  I  doo  rile  easy." 

lk  What  onsettles  ye,  Snapps?  " 


412  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

"  Well,  there's  a  squall  to  wind'ard,  skipper;  'taint 
no  cat's-paw  neither ;  good  no-no-east,  ef  it's  a  flaw. 
And  you  landlubbers  are  a-goin'  to  leeward,  some  on 

ye." 

"  You  don't  say  !  What  be  you  a-hintin'  at?" 

"  Well,  there's  a  reel  blow  down  to  Bostin,  Zekle  ; 
there's  no  more  gettin'  out  o'  harbor  with  our  old 
sloop  ;  she's  ben  an'  gone,  an'  got  some  'tarual  lawyer's 
job  spliced  to  her  bows,  an'  she's  laid  up  to  dry  ;  but 
that's  a  pesky  small  part  o'  judgment.  Bostin's  full 
o'  them  Britishers,  sech  as  scomfishkated  the  '  Susan 
Jane,'  cos  our  skipper  done  suthin'  he  hedn't  oughter, 
or  didn't  do  suthin'  he  hed  oughter  ;  and  I  tell  yew  the 
end  o'  things  is  nigh  about  comin'  on  here  !  " 

Sally,  in  the  chimney-corner,  heard  Long  Snapps 
with  open  e3-es,  and,  hitching  her  wooden  chair  nearer, 
inquired  solemnly  :  — 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Mister  Snapps?  Is  the  end 
of  the  world  comin'  here?  " 

u  Bless  your  pooty  little  figger-head,  Sally  !  I  don't 
know  as  'tis,  but  suthin'  nigh  about  as  bad  is  a-comin'. 
Them  Britishers  is  sot  out  for  to  hev  us  under  hatches, 
or  else  walk  the  plank  ;  and  they're  darned  mistook,  ef 
they  think  men  is  a-goin'  to  be  steered  blind,  and  can't 
blow  up  the  cap'in  no  rate.  There  aint  no  man  in 
Ameriky  but  what's  got  suthin'  to  fight  for,  afore  he'll 
gin  in  to  sech  tyrints ;  and  it'll  come  to  fightiu'  yet, 
afore  long !  " 

"  Oh,  my  !  oh,  goody  !  the  land's  sakes  !  yew  don't 
mean  ter  say  that,  Long?"  wofully  screeched  Aunt 
Poll,  whose  ideas  of  war  were  derived  in  great  measure 
from  the  tattered  copy  of  Josephus  extant  in  the  Par 
sons  family,  and  who  was  at  present  calculating  the 


SALLY  PARSONS 'S  DUTY.  413 

probable  effect  of  a  battering-ram  on  their  back  butter}-, 
and  thinking  how  horrible  it  would  be  to  eat  up  Uncle 
'Zekiel  in  case  of  famine,  —  even  after  long  courses  of 
rats  and  dogs. 

"  Well,  I  dew,  Aunt  Poll.  There'll  be  some  poppin' 
an'  stickin'  done  in  these  parts  afore  long ! " 

"  The  Lord  deliver  us  !  an'  the  rest  on't !  "  devoutly 
ejaculated  Poll,  whose  piety  exceeded  her  memory ; 
whereat  'Zekiel,  pulling  on  the  other  blue  stocking  that 
had  hung  suspended  in  his  fingers  while  the  sailor  dis 
coursed,  exhorted  a  little  himself :  — 

"  Well,  the  Lord  don't  deliver  nobody  without  they 
wriggle  for  themselves  pretty  consider'ble  well  fust. 
This  aint  the  newest  news  to  me  ;  I've  been  expectin' 
on't  a  long  spell,  an'  I've  talked  consider'ble  with  West- 
bury  folks  about  it ;  and  there  aint  nobody  much,  round 
about  here,  but  what' 11  stand  out  agin  the  Britishers, 
exceptin'  Tucker's  folks  ;  they're  desp'rit  for  Church 
an'  King  ;  they  tell  as  ef  the  Lord  gin  the  king  a  special 
license  to  set  up  in  a  big  chair  an'  rewl  creation ;  an' 
they  think  it's  pertic'lar  sin  to  speak  as  though  he 
could  go  'skew  anyhow.  Now  I  believe  the  Lord  lets 
folks  find  out  what  he  does,  out  o'  Scriptur' ;  and  I 
haint  found  nothin'  yet  to  tell  about  kings  bein'  better 
than  their  neighbors,  and  it  don't  look  as  ef  this  king 
was  so  clever  as  common.  I  s'pose  you  haint  hecrd 
what  our  Colon}*  Congress  is  a-doiii',  hev  ye,  Snapps?  " 

"  Well,  no,  I  haint.  They  was  a-layin'  to,  last  I 
heerd,  so's  to  settle  their  course ;  I  'xpect  they've 
heaved  up  an'  let  go  by  this,  but  I  haint  seen  no 
signals." 

"  Dear  me  !  "  interrupted  Sally  ;  "  a  real  war  coming, 
and  I  aint  anything  but  a  woman  !  " 


414  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

Her  cheeks  and  eyes  glowed  with  fervent  feeling, 
as  she  said  this  ;  and  the  old  sailor,  turning  around, 
surveyed  her  with  a  grin  of  honest  admiration. 

"Well  said,  gal !  but  you're  out  o'  your  reckonin' 
ef  yon  think  women  aint  nothin'  in  war-time.  I  tell 
yew,  them  is  the  craft  that  sails  afore  the  wind,  and 
does  the  signallin'  to  all  the  fleet.  When  gals  is  full- 
rigged  an'  tonguey,  they're  reg'lar  press-gangs  to  t\vist 
young  fellers  round,  an'  make  'em  sail  under  the  right 
colors.  Stick  to  the  ship,  Miss  Sally  ;  give  a  heave  at 
the  windlass  now  'n'  then,  an'  don't  let  nary  one  o'thern 
fellers  that  comes  a-buzzin'  round  you  the  hull  time 
turn  his  back  on  Yankee  Doodle  ;  an'  you  won't  never 
hanker  to  be  a  man,  cf  'tis  war-time  ! " 

Sally's  eyes  burned  bluer  than  before.  "  Thank 
you  kindly,  Mister  Snapps.  I'm  obleeged  to  you  for 
putting  the  good  thought  into  my  head.  (If  I  don't 
pester  George  Tucker  —  the  plaguy  Tory  !)  " 

This  parenthesis  was  mental,  and  Sally  went  off  to 
bed  with  a  busy  brain ;  but  the  sleep  of  youth  and 
health  quieted  it ;  and  if  she  dreamed  of  George 
Tucker  in  regimentals  I  am  afraid  they  were  of  fla 
grant  militia  scarlet,  —  the  buff  and  blue  were  not 
distinctive  yet.  However,  for  the  next  week  Sally 
heard  enough  revolutionary  doctrine  to  revive  her 
Sunday-night  enthusiasm;  the  flame  of  "successful 
rebellion "  had  spread ;  the  country  began  to  stir 
and  hum  ominously ;  people  assembled  in  groups, 
on  corners,  by  church-steps,  around  tavern -doors, 
with  faces  full  of  portent  and  expectance ;  ploughs 
stood  idly  in  the  fields ;  and  the  rawboned  horses, 
that  should  of  right  have  dragged  the  reluctant  share 
through  heavy  clay  and  abounding  stones,  now,  be- 


SALLY  PARSONS 'S  DUTY.  415 

stridden  by  breathless  couriers,  scoured  the  country 
hither  and  yon,  with  news,  messages,  and  orders  from 
those  who  had  taken  the  right  to  order  out  of  the 
hands  of  sleek  and  positive  officials. 

Nor  were  Westbury  people  the  last  to  wake  up  in 
the  general  reveille.  Everybody  in  the  pretty,  tranquil 
village,  tranquil  now  no  more,  declared  themselves 
openly  on  one  side  or  the  other,  —  Peter  Tucker  and 
his  son  George  for  the  king,  of  course  ;  and  this  open 
avowal  caused  a  sufficiently  pungent  scene  in  Miss 
Sally  Parsons's  keeping-room  the  very  next  Sunday 
night,  when  the  aforesaid  George,  in  company  with 
several  of  his  peers,  visited  the  farm-house  for  the 
laudable  purpose  of  "  sparkin'"  Miss  Sail}'. 

There  were  three  other  youths  there  besides  George  ; 
all  stout  for  the  Continental  side  of  the  question,  and 
full  of  eager  but  restrained  zeal ;  ready  to  take  up 
arms  at  a  moment's  notice ;  equally  ready  to  wait  for 
the  ripened  time.  Of  such  men  were  those  armies 
made  up  that  endured  with  a  woman's  patience  and 
fought  with  a  mau's  fury,  righting  a  great  wrong  as 
much  by  moral  as  by  physical  strength,  and  going  to 
death  for  the  right,  when  death,  pitiless  and  inevitable, 
stared  them  in  the  face. 

Long  Snapps  had  been,  in  his  own  phrase,  "  weath 
er-bound"  at  Westbury,  and  was  there  still,  safe  in 
the  chimney-corner,  his  shrewd  face  puckered  with 
thought  and  care,  his  steady  old  heart  full  of  resolute 
bravery,  and  longing  for  the  time  to  come ;  flint  and 
steel  ready  to  strike  fire  on  the  slightest  collision.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  hearth  from  Snapps  sat  'Zekiel,  in 
his  butternut-colored  Sunday  suit ;  the  four  young 
man  ranged  in  a  grim  row  of  high-backed  wooden 


416  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

chairs ;  Sally,  blooming  as  the  roses  on  her  chintz 
gown,  occupying  one  end  of  the  settee,  while  Annt 
Poll  filled  the  rest  of  that  institution  with  her  ample 
quilted  petticoat  and  paduasoy  cloak,  trying  hard  to 
keep  her  hands  still,  in  their  unaccustomed  idleness, — 
nay,  if  it  must  be  told,  surreptitiously  keeping  up  a 
knitting  with  the  fingers,  in  lieu  of  the  accustomed 
needles  and  yarn. 

An  awful  silence  reigned  after  the  preliminary  bows 
and  scrapes  had  been  achieved,  —  first  broken  by 
George  Tucker,  who  drew  from  under  his  chair  a  small 
basket  of  red-cheeked  apples  and  handed  them  to  Aunt 
Poll. 

"  "Well,  now,  George  Tucker  !  "exclaimed  the  benign 
spinster,  "  you  dew  beat  all  for  sass  out  o'  season  ! 
Kep'  'em  down  sullar,  I  expect  ?  " 

"  Yes'm,  our  suller's  very  dry." 

"  Well,  it  bed  oughter.     What  kind  be  they  ?  " 

"  English  pippins,  ma'am." 

"  Dew  tell !     Be  you  a-goin'  to  hev  one,  Sally?  " 

"No,  Aunt  Poll!  I  don't  want  any  thin'  English 
'round !  " 

The  three  young  men  grinned  and  chuckled.  George 
Tucker  turned  red. 

"  Hooray  for  you,  Sally  ! "  sung  out  old  Snapps. 
"  You're  a  three-decker,  if  ever  there  was  un  !  " 

Again  George  reddened,  fidgeted  on  his  chair,  and 
at  last  said,  in  a  disturbed,  but  quite  distinct  voice  :  — 

"  I  think  the  apples  are  good,  Miss  Sally,  if  the  name 
don't  suit  you." 

"The  name's  too  bad  to  be  good,  sir !"  retorted 
Sally,  with  a  decided  sniff  and  toss  of  the  head.  Old 
'Zekiel  gave  a  low  laugh  and  interfered. 


SALLY  PARSONS' S  DUTY.  417 

"  You  see,  George  Tucker,  these  here  times  is  curus. 
It  wakes  up  the  wimmen  folks  to  hev  no  tea,  nor  no 
prospects  of  peace  and  quiet,  so's  to  make  butter  aii' 
set  hens." 

"  O  father  !  "  burst  out  Sally,  "  do  you  think  that's 
all  that  ails  women  ?  I  wouldn't  care  if  I  eat  samp  for 
ever,  and  had  nothing  but  saxifrax  tea ;  but  I  can't 
stand  by  cool,  and  see  men  driven  like  dumb  beasts  by 
another  man,  if  he  has  got  a  crown,  and  never  be  let 
speak  for  themselves." 

Sally's  logic  was  rather  confused,  but  George  got  at 
the  idea  as  fast  as  was  necessary. 

"  If 'twas  a  common  man,  Miss  Sally;  but  a  king's 
set  up  on  high  by  the  Lord,  and  we  ought  to  obey 
what  he  sets  over  us." 

"I  don't  see  where  in  Scriptur'  }'ou  get  that  idee, 
George,"  retorted  'Zekiel. 

"  Well,  it  says  in  one  place  that  you're  to  obey  them 
that  has  the  rule  over  you,  sir." 

"So  it  do  ;  but  ef  the  king  haint  got  no  rcwl  over 
us  (an'  it  looks  mighty  like  it  jes'  now),  why,  I  don't 
see's  we're  bound  to  mind  him  !  " 

This  astute  little  sophism  confounded  poor  George 
for  a  minute,  during  which  Sally  began  to  giggle 
violently,  and  flirt  in  her  rustic  fashion  with  the  three 
rebels  in  a  row.  At  length  George,  recovering  his 
poise  and  clear-sightedness,  resumed  :  — 

"  But  he  did  rule  over  us,  Mister  Parsons,  and  I  can't 
see  how  it's  right  to  rebel." 

"  There  don't  every  thin'  come  jest  square  about 
seein'  things,"  interposed  Long  Snapps  ;  "  folks  hed 
better  steer  by  facts  sometimes,  than  by  yarns.  It's 
jest  like  v'yagin' ;  yew  do'no'  sumtimes  what's  to  pay 


418  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

with  a  compass  ;  it'll  go  all  p'ints  to  once  ;  mebbe  some 
body's  got  a  hatchet  near  by,  or  some  lubber's  throwed 
a  chain  down  by  the  binnacle,  or  some  darned  thing's 
got  inside  on't,  or  it's  shipped  a  sea  an'  got  rusted ; 
but  there's  allers  the  Dipper  an'  the  North  Star  ;  they're 
aller's  true  to  their  bearin's,  and  you  can't  go  to  Davy 
Jones's  locker  for  want  of  a  light'us  so  long's  they're 
ahead.  I  calc'late  its  jes'  so  about  this  king-talk ; 
orders  is  very  well  when  they  aint  agin  common-sense 
an'  the  rights  o'  natur' ;  but  you  see,  George  Tucker, 
folks  will  go  'cordin'  to  natur'  an'  reason,  ef  there's 
forty  parliments  an'  kings  in  tow.  Natur's  jest  like  a 
no' west  squall;  you  can't  do  nothin'  but  tack  ag'inst 
it ;  and  no  men  is  goin'  to  stan'  still  and  see  the  wind 
taken  out  o'  their  sails,  an'  their  liberty  flung  to  sharks, 
without  one  mutiny  to  know  why  !  " 

"No!"  burst  out  Sally,  who  had  stopped  flirting, 
and  been  listening  with  soul  and  body  to  Long  ;  "  and 
no  man,  that  is  a  man,  will  go  against  the  right  and 
the  truth  just  because  the  wrong  is  strongest ! " 

This  little  feminine  insult  was  too  much  for  George 
Tucker,  particularly  as  he  had  not  the  least  idea  how 
its  utterance  burned  Sally's  lips,  and  made  her  heart 
ache.  Pie  got  up  from  his  chair  with  a  very  bitter  look 
on  his  handsome  face. 

"  I  see,"  said  he,  quite  coldly,  "  I  am  likely  to  be 
scarce  welcome  here.  I  believe  the  king  is  my  master, 
made  so  by  the  Lord,  and  I  think  it  is  my  honest  duty 
to  obey  him.  It  hurts  me  to  part  otherwise  than  kind 
with  friends  ;  but  I  wish  you  a  good  night,  and  better 
judgment." 

There  was  something  so  manly  in  George's  speech, 
that,  but  for  its  final  fling  and  personality,  every  man 


SALLY  PARSONS' S  DUTY.  419 

in  the  room  would  have  crowded  round  him  to  shake 
hands  ;  but  what  man  ever  coolly  heard  his  judgment 
impeached  ? 

Sally  swallowed  a  great  round  sob ;  but  being,  like 
all  women,"  an  actress  in  her  way,  bowed  as  calmly  to 
Mr.  George  as  if  he  only  said  adieu  after  an  ordinary 
call. 

Aunt  Poll  snuffled,  and  followed  George  to  the  door  ; 
Uncle  'Zekiel  drew  himself  up  straight,  and  looked  after 
him,  his  clear  blue  eyes  sparkling  with  two  rays, —  one 
of  honest,  patriotic  wrath,  one  of  affection  and  regret 
for  George  ;  while  Long,  from  the  corner,  eyed  all  with 
a  serpent's  wisdom  in  his  gaze,  oracularly  uttering,  as 
the  door  shut : — 

"  Well,  that  are  feller  is  good  grit !  " 

"All  the  worse  for  us  ! "  growled  Eliashib  Sparks, 
the  biggest  of  the  three,  surprising  Sally  into  a  little 
hysterical  laugh,  and  surprised  himself  still  more  at 
this  unexpected  sequence  to  his  remark. 

"Pooty  bad!  George  is  a  clever  fellow!"  ejacu 
lated  'Zekiel.  "  He  haint  got  the  rights  on't,  but  I 
think  he'll  come  round  by'n'by." 

"I  do'no',"  said  Long,  meditatively ;  "he's  pooty 
stiff,  that  are  fellow.  He's  sot  on  dooty,  I  see ;  an' 
that  means  suthin'  when  a  man  that  oughter  be  called 
a  man  sez  it.  AVimmin-folks,  now,  don't  sail  on  that 
tack.  When  a  gal  sets  to  talkin'  about  her  dooty  it's 
allers  suthin'  she  wants  ter  do  and  haint  got  no  grand 
excuse  for't.  Ye  never  see  a  woman't  didn't  get 
married  for  dooty  yet ;  there  aint  nary  one  on  'em 
darst  to  say  they  wanted  ter." 

"  O  Mister  Long  !  "  exclaimed  Sally. 

"  Well,  Sally,  it's  nigh  about  so;  you  haiut  lived  a 


420  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

hunderd  year.  Some  o'  these  days  you'll  get  to  know 
yer  dooty." 

Sally  turned  red,  and  the  three  young  men  snig 
gered.  Forgive  the  word,  gentle  and  fair  readers  !  —  it 
means  what  I  mean,  and  no  other  word  expresses  it ; 
let  us  be  graphic  and  die ! 

Just  then  the  meeting-house  bell  rang  for  nine 
o'clock ;  and  every  man  got  up  from  his  seat,  like  a 
son  of  Anak,  bowed,  scraped,  cleared  his  throat  to 
say  "  Good-night,"  did  say  something  like  it,  and  left. 

"  Well,  Sally,  I  swear  }-ou're  good  at  signalling" 
broke  out  Long,  as  soon  as  the  youths  were  fairly  out 
of  sight  and  sound;  " you  hev  done  it  for  George 
Tucker !  " 

Sally  gave  no  answer,  but  a  brand  from  the  back-log 
fell,  blazed  up  in  a  shaft  of  rosy  flame,  and  showed 
a  suspicious  glitter  on  the  girl's  round,  wholesome 
cheek. 

Aunt  Poll  had  gone  to  bed ;  'Zekiel  was  going  the 
nightly  rounds  of  his  barns,  to  see  to  the  stock  ;  Long 
Snapps  was  aware  of  opportunity, —  the  secret  of  suc 
cess. 

*'  Sally,"  said  he,  "  is  that  feller  sparkin'  you?" 

Sally  laughed  a  little,  and  something,  perhaps  the 
blaze,  reddened  her  face. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  pretty  hypocrite,  de 
murely. 

"H'm!  well,  I  do,"  answered  Long;  "and  you 
aint  never  goin'  to  take  up  with  a  tory  ?  —  don't  think 
it's  yer  dooty,  hey?" 

"  No,  indeed  !  "  flashed  Sally.  "  Do  you  think  I'd 
marry  a  Britisher?  I'd  run  away  and  live  with  the 
Indians  first." 


SALLY  PARSONS' S  DUTY.  421 

"Pooty  good!  pooty  good!  you're  calc'lating  to 
make  George  into  a  rebel,  I  'xpect!" 

Long  was  looking  into  the  fire  when  he  said  this ;  he 
did  not  see  Sally's  look  of  rage  and  amazement  at  his 
unpleasant  penetration. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  care  what  George  Tucker  thinks," 
said  she,  with  a  toss  of  her  curly  head. 

"  H'm ! "  uttered  Long,  meditatively,  "lucky!  I 
'xpect  he  carries  too  many  guns  to  be  steered  by  a 
woman ;  'tis  a  kinder  pity  you  aint  a  man,  Sally ; 
mebbe  you'd  argufy  him  round  then  ;  it's  plain  as  the 
gulf  you  can't  crook  his  v'yage  ;  he's  too  stiff  for 
wimmin  folks,  that's  a  fact ! " 

O  Long  Snapps !  Long  Snapps !  how  many  wives, 
in  how  many  ports,  went  to  the  knowledge  of  feminine 
nature  that  dictated  that  speech?  Sally  set  her  lips. 
From  that  hour  George  Tucker  was  a  doomed  man ; 
but  she  said  nothing  more  audible  than  "•  Good-night." 
Long  looked  at  her,  as  she  lit  the  tallow  dip  by  the  fire, 
and  chuckled  when  he  heard  her  shut  the  milk-room 
door  in  the  safe  distance.  He  was  satisfied. 

The  next  afternoon  Sally  was  weeding  onions  in  the 
garden, — heroines  did,  in  those  days,  —  the  currant- 
bushes  had  just  leafed  out ;  so  George  Tucker,  going 
by,  saw  her  ;  and  she,  who  had  seen  him  coming  before 
she  began  to  weed,  accidentally  of  course,  looked  up  and 
gave  him  a  very  bright  smile.  That  was  the  first  spider- 
thread,  and  the  fly  stepped  into  it  with  such  a  thrill ! 

Of  course  he  stopped,  and  said :  — 

"What  a  pleasant  day!"  —  the  saving  phrase  of 
life.  Then  Sally  said  something  he  couldn't  hear,  and 
he  leaped  the  low  fence  without  being  asked,  rather 
than  request  her  to  raise  her  voice ;  he  was  so  con- 


422  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN, 

siderate.  Next  he  remembered,  just  as  he  turned  to 
go  away,  that  there  were  some  white  violets  down  in 
the  meadow,  that  Sally  always  liked.  Couldn't  she 
spend  time  to  walk  down  there  across  lots  and  get  some  ? 
Sally  thought  the  onions  could  not  be  left.  Truth  to 
tell,  her  heart  was  in  her  mouth.  She  had  been  play 
ing  with  edge-tools  ;  but  just  then  she  smelt  a  whiff  of 
smoke  from  Long  Snapp's  pipe,  and  the  resolve  of  last 
night  came  back  :  her  face  relented,  and  George,  see 
ing  it,  used  his  utmost  persuasiveness  ;  so  the  result 
was,  that  Sally  washed  her  hands  at  the  well,  and 
away  they  went,  in  the  most  serene  silence,  over  fences, 
grass-lots,  and  ditches,  through  bits  of  woodland  and 
by  fields  of  winter-rye,  till  they  reached  the  edge  of  the 
great  meadow,  and  sat  down  on  a  log  to  rest.  It  was 
rather  a  good  place  for  that  purpose.  An  old  pine  had 
fallen  at  the  feet  of  a  majestic  cluster  of  its  brethren, 
so  close  that  the  broad  column  of  one  made  a  natural 
back  to  part  of  the  seat.  The  ground  was  warm,  dry 
sand,  strewn  with  the  fine  dead  leaves  of  past  seasons, 
brown  and  aromatic.  A  light  south  wind  woke  the 
voices  of  every  bough  above,  and  the  melancholy  su- 
surrus  rose  and  fell  in  delicate  cadences  ;  while  beyond 
the  green  meadow,  Westbury  river,  a  good-sized  brook, 
babbled  and  danced  as  if  there  were  no  pine-tree  la 
ments  in  the  world. 

I  believe  the  air,  and  the  odor,  and  the  crying  wind 
drove  the  violets  quite  out  of  both  the  two  heads  that 
drooped  silently  over  that  pine  log.  If  Sally  had  been 
nervous  or  poetical  she  would  have  been  glad  to  recol 
lect  them  ;  but  no  such  morbidness  invaded  her  healthy 
soul.  She  sat  quite  still  till  George  said,  in  a  sup 
pressed  and  rather  broken  tone  :  — 


SALLY  PARSONS' S  DUTY.  423 

"  I  was  sorry  to  vex  you  last  night,  Sally  ;  I  could 
not  be  sorry  for  anything  else." 

"  You  did  grieve  me  very  much,  Mister  George," 
said  Sally,  affecting  a  little  distance  in  her  address,  but 
sufficiently  tender  in  manner. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  don't  see  it  the  way  I  do," 
returned  George;  "and  I  am  very  sorry,  for  I  had 
rather  please  you  than  anybody  else." 

This  was  especially  tender,  and  he  possessed  himself 
of  Sally's  little  red  hand,  unaware  or  careless  that  it 
smelt  of  onions  ;  but  it  was  withdrawn  very  decidedly. 

"  I  think  you  take  a  strange  way  of  showing  your 
liking  !  "  sniffed  the  damsel. 

George  sat  astounded.  Another  tiny  spider-thread 
stopped  the  fly  ;  a  subtle  ray  of  blue  sped  sideways  out 
of  Sally's  eye,  that  meant  "  I  don't  object  to  be  liked." 

' '  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  I  knew  any  good  way  to 
please  you,"  he  fervently  ejaculated. 

"/should  think  any  way  to  please  people  was  a  good 
way,"  retorted  Sally,  saying  more  with  her  eyes  than 
with  her  voice,  —  so  much  more,  that  in  fact  this  fly 
was  fast.  A  little  puff  of  wind  blew  off  Sally's  bonnet ; 
she  looked  shy,  flushed,  lovely.  George  stood  up  on 
his  feet,  and  took  his  hat  off. 

"  Sally,"  said  he,  in  the  deepest  notes  of  his  full, 
manly  voice,  "  I  love  you  very  much  indeed  !  Will  you 
be  my  wife?  " 

Sally  was  confounded.  I  rejoice  to  say  she  was  quite 
confounded ;  but  she  was  made  of  revolutionary  stuff, 
and  what  just  now  interfered  with  her  plans  and 
schemes  was  the  sudden  discovery  how  very  much  in 
deed  she  loved  George  Tucker,  — a  fact  she  had  not 
left  enough  margin  for  in  her  plot. 


424  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

But,  as  I  said,  she  was  made  of  good  metal,  and  she 
answered  very  low  :  — 

"  I  do  like  you,  George;  but  I  never  will  marry  a 
Britisher  and  a  tory." 

A  spasm  of  real  anguish  distorted  the  handsome  face, 
bent  forward  to  listen. 

"  Do  you  mean  that,  Sally?  Can't  you  love  me  be 
cause  we  don't  think  alike  ?  " 

Sally  choked  a  little  ;  her  tones  fell  to  a  whisper. 
George  had  to  sit  down  close  to  her  to  hear. 

"I  didn't  say  I  didn't  love  you,  George."  A  blissful 
pause  of  a  second  ;  then,  in  a  clear,  cold  voice,  "  But 
my  mind's  set.  I  can't  marry  a  Britisher  and  a  tory, 
if  I  died  sayin'  so." 

George  gasped. 

"  And  I  cannot  turn  traitor  and  rebel,  Sally.  I  can- 
not .  I  love  you  better  than  anj-thing  in  the  world  ;  but 
I  can't  do  a  wicked  thing  ;  no,  not  even  for  }'ou." 

He  was  pale  as  death.  Sally's  secret  heartfelt  proud 
of  him,  and  never  had  she  been  so  near  repenting  of 
her  work  in  the  good  cause  before  ;  but  she  was  reso 
lute. 

"  Very  well,"  replied  she,  coolly  ;  "  if  you  prefer  the 
king  to  me  it's  not  my  fault.  When  your  side  beats 
you  can  take  your  revenge  !  " 

The  thorough  injustice  of  this  speech  roused  her 
lover's  generous  indignation. 

"  If  you  can  think  that  way  of  me,  Sally,  it  is  better 
for  us  both  to  have  me  go  !  Good  night !  "  And  away 
strode  the  loj*al  fellow,  never  looking  back  to  see  his 
sweetheart  have  a  good  cry  on  the  pine  log,  and  then 
an  equally  comfortable  fit  of  laughter ;  for  she  knew 
verv  well  how  restless  Mister  George  would  he,  all  alone 


SALLY  PARSONS'S  DUTY.  425 

by  himself,  and  how  much  it  meant  that  they  both 
loved  each  other,  and  both  knew  it. 

Sally's  heart  was  stout.  A  sort  of  Yankee  Evange- 
liiie,  she  would  not  have  gone  after  Gabriel ;  she  would 
have  stayed  at  home  and  waited  for  him  to  the  end  of 
time  ;  doing  chores  and  mending  meanwhile,  but  un 
married,  in  the  fixed  intention  of  being  her  lover's  sixth 
wife  possibh",  but  his  wife  at  last. 

So  she  went  home  and  got  supper,  strained  and 
skimmed  milk,  set  a  sponge  for  bread,  and  slept  all  night 
like  a  dormouse.  George  Tucker  never  went  to  bed. 

"  Hooraw !  "  roared  Long  Snapps,  trundling  in  to 
dinner,  the  next  day  ;  "  they're  wakin'  up  down  to  Bos- 
tin  !  Good  many  on  'em's  quit  the  town.  Them  are 
Britishers  is  a-gettin'  up  sech  a  breeze ;  an'  they  doo 
say  the  reg'lars  is  comin'  out  full  sail,  to  cair'  off  all  the 
amminition  in  these  parts,  fear  'o  mutiny  'mongst  the 
milishy !  " 

"  Come  along  !  "  shouted  'Zekiel,  "  let'em  come  !  like 
to  see  'em  takin'  our  powder  an'  shot  'thout  askin' ! 
Guess  they'll  hear  thunder,  ef  they  stick  their  heads 
inter  a  hornet's  nest." 

"  Dr.edful  suz  !  "  exclaimed  Aunt  Poll,  pulling  turnips 
out  of  the  pot  with  reckless  haste,  and  so  scalding  her 
brown  fingers  emphatically;  "be  they  a-comin' here? 
Will  they  fetch  along  the  batterin'-rams?" 

"  Thunder  an'  dry  trees,"  ejaculated  'Zekiel,  "what 
does  the  woman  "  ;  —  but  at  that  instant  Long  made 
for  the  door,  and  flung  it  open,  thereby  preventing 
explanations. 

"  Goin'  to  Concord,  George?  "  shouted  he  to  George 
Tucker,  who,  in  a  one-horse  wagon  and  his  Sunday-best 
clothes,  was  driving  slowly  past. 


426  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

"  No ;  goin'  to  Lexington,  after  corn.  Can  I  do 
anything  for  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  no,  I  'xpect  not.  When  be  you  a-comiu' 
back?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"  Well,  go  'long  ;  good-luck  to  ye  !  Keep  to  wind'ard 
o'  squalls,  George." 

Long  nodded,  and  George  drove  on.  That  day  the 
whole  village  of  Westbury  was  in  an  uproar.  News 
had  come  from  Boston  that  the  British  were  about  to 
send  out  forces  to  possess  themselves  of  all  the  mili 
tary  stores  in  the  country,  and  forestall  rebellion  by 
rendering  it  helpless.  From  every  corner  of  every 
farm  and  village  young  men  and  old  mustered ;  from 
every  barn  horses  of  all  sizes  and  descriptions  were 
driven  out  and  saddled ;  rusty  muskets,  balls  of  all 
shapes  and  of  any  available  metal  that  would  melt  and 
run,  disabled  broad-swords,  horse -pistols,  blunder 
busses,  whatever  wore  any  resemblance  to  a  weapon,  or 
could  be  rendered  serviceable  to  that  end,  —  all  were 
hunted  out,  cleaned,  mended,  and  laid  ready ;  an 
array  that  might  have  made  a  properly  drilled  and 
equipped  army  srnile  in  contempt,  but  whose  deficien 
cies  were  more  than  supplied  by  iron  sinews,  true 
blood,  resolve,  and  desperate  courage. 

Sally  and  Aunt  Poll  partook  the  gale  of  patriotism. 
They  scoured  the  "  ole  queen's  arm"  to  brilliancy; 
they  ran  bullets  by  the  hour ;  baked  bread  and  brewed 
spring  beer,  with  no  more  definite  purpose  than  a 
general  conviction  that  men  must  and  would  cat,  as  the 
men  of  their  house  certainly  did,  in  the  intervals  of 
repairing  harness,  filling  powder-horns  and  shot-belts, 
trotting  over  to  the  tavern  after  news,  and  coming  back 


SALLY  PARSONS' S  DUTY.  427 

to  retail  it,  till  Aunt  Poll  began  to  imagine  she  heard 
the  distant  strokes  of  a  battering-ram,  and,  rushing  out 
in  terror  to  assure  herself,  discovered  it  to  be  only  Sam 
Pequot,  an  old  Indian,  who,  with  the  apathy  of  his 
race,  was  threshing  in  the  barn. 

Aunt  PoIRook  clown  Josephus  to  refresh  her  memory, 
and  actually  drew  a  laugh  from  Sally's  grave  lips  by 
confiding  to  her  this  extreme  horror  of  the  case  ;  a 
laugh  she  forgave,  since  Sally  reassured  her  by  recom 
mending  to  her  notice  the  fact  that  Jerusalem  had  stone 
walls  that  were  more  difficult  to  climb  than  stone 
fences.  As  for  Sally,  she  thought  of  George  all  day,  — 
of  George,  all  night ;  and  while  the  next  day  deepened 
toward  noon  was  still  thinking  of  him,  when  in  rushed 
Long  Snapps,  tarpaulin  in  hand,  full  of  news  and  horror. 

'kl  swan!  we've  got  it  now !"  said  he.  "Them 
darned  Britishers  sot  out  fur  Concord  last  night,  to 
board  our  decks  an'  plunder  the  magazine ;  the  boys 
heerd  on't,  and  they  was  ready  over  to  Lexin'ton, 
waitin'  round  the  meetin'us ;  they  stood  to't,  an'  that 
old  powder-monkey  Pitcairn  sung  out  to  throw  down 
their  arms,  darned  rebels  ;  an'  'cause  they  didn't  muster 
to  his  whistle  he  let  fly  at  'em  like  split ;  an'  there's 
some  killed  an'  more  wounded  ;  pretty  much  all  on  'em 
our  folks,  though  they  did  giv  the  reg'lars  one  round  o' 
ball  afore  they  run." 

"  Hooray  !  "  shouted  'Zekiel ;  "  that's  the  talk  ;  guess 
they'll  sing  smaller  next  time  !  " 

"  They'll  do  more'n  that,  Zekle,"  responded  Long; 
"  this  aint  but  the  beginnin'  o'  sorrers,  as  Parson  Marsh 
sez,  sez  he  ;  there'll  be  a  hull  gulf  stream  o'  blood 
afore  them  darned  reg'lars  knows  the  color  on't  well 
enough  to  lay  their  course." 


428  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

Sally  glided  past  Long,  and  plucked  him  by  the 
sleeve,  unseen  bjr  the  rest.  He  followed  her  into  the 
shed.  She  was  ghastly  pale.  "  Long,"  said  she, 
hurriedly,  "  did  you  hear  who?  Was  anybody  shot?" 

"  Bless  ye,  gal !  a  hull  school  on  'em  was  shot ;  there 
wasn't  many  went  to  the  bottom,  though*;  haint  heerd 
no  names." 

"  But  George?"  gasped  Sally,  —  "he  went  to  Lex 
ington  yesterday." 

"Well,  I  am  took  aback!"  growled  Long.  "I 
swear  I  never  thought  on't.  I'll  go  see." 

"  Come  back  and  tell  me,"  whispered  Sally. 

"  Lord-a-massy,  yes,  child  !  —  jest  as  soon's  I  know 
myself  trewly ;  but  I  shan't  know  nothin'  more  till 
sundown,  I  'xpect.  Desire  Trowbridge  is  a-ridin' 
post ;  he'll  come  through  'bout  that  time  with  news." 

Long  did  not  come  back  for  several  hours,  some 
time  after  sundown,  when  he  found  Sally  in  the  shed, 
waiting  for  him.  She  saw  the  news  in  his  face. 
"  Dead!"  said  she,  clutching  at  the  old  sailor's  hand. 

"No!  no!  he  aint  slipt  his  moorin's  }-et,  but  he  is 
badly  stove  about  the  figger-head ;  he's  got  a  ball 
through  his  head  somewhere,  an'  another  in  his  leg ; 
and  he  aint  within  hail ;  don't  hear  no  speakin'-trum- 
pets ;  fact  is,  Sally,  he's  in  for  the  dock -yard  a  good 
spell,  ef  he  aint  broke  up,  hull  and  all." 

"  Who  shot  him?"  whispered  Sally. 

"That's  the  best  on't,  gal;  he's  took  an'  tacked 
beautiful;  he  went  "into  port  at  Lexin'ton  yesterday, 
and  heerin'  there  all  sides  o'  the  story,  an'  thet  them 
critters  sot  up  for  to  thieve  away  our  stores,  he  got 
kinder  riled  at  the  hull  crew  like  a  common-sense 
feller,  an'  when  Pitcairn  come  along  George  finally 


SALLY  PARSONS 'S  DUTY.  429 

struck  his  colors,  run  up  a  new  un  to  the  mast 
head,  borrered  a  musket,  an'  jined  the  milishy,  an' 
got  shot  by  them  cussed  reg'lars  fur  his  pains  ;  an  ef 
he  doos  die  I'll  hev  a  figger  cut  on  a  stun  myself,  to 
tell  folks  he  was  a  rebel  and  an  honest  man,  arter  all." 

"  Where  is  he?"  asked  Sally,  in  another  whisper. 

"  He's  .to  the  tavern  there  in  Lexin'ton.  There  aint 
nobody  along  with  him,  'cause  his  father's  gone  to 
Bostin  to  see  'bout  not  gettin'  scomfishkated,  or  arter 
a  protection,  or  sumthiu'." 

"And  his  mother  is  dead,"  said  Sally,  slowly. 
"Long!  I  must  go  to  Lexington  to-night,  on  the 
pillion,  and  you  must  go  with  me.  Father's  got  too 
much  rhetimatiz  to  ask  it  of  him." 

"Well!"  said  Long,  after  a  protracted  stare  at 
Sally,  —  "  wimmiu  is  the  oddest  craft  that  ever  sailed. 
I  swan,  when  I  sight  'em  I  don't  know  a  main-top-sail 
from  a  fly  in'  jib !  Goin'  to  take  care  o'  George,  be 
ye?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sally,  meekly. 

Long  rolled  the  inseparable  quid  in  his  cheek,  and 
slyly  drawled  out,  "  W-ell,  if  ye  must,  ye  must!  I 
aint  a-goin'  ter  stand  in  the  way  of  yer  dooty  !  " 

Sally  was  too  far  away  to  hear,  or  she  might  have 
smiled. 

Uncle  Zeke  and  Aunt  Poll  were  to  be  told  and 
coaxed  into  assent,  —  no  very  hard  task ;  for  George 
Tucker  was  a  favorite  of  'Zekiel's,  and  now  he  had 
turned  rebel,  the  only  grudge  he  had  ever  owed 
him  was  removed  ;  he  was  only  too  glad  to  help  him 
in  any  way.  Aunt  Poll's  sole  trouble  was  lest  Sally 
should  take  cold.  The  proprieties,  those  gods  of 
modern  social  worship,  as  well  as  their  progenitors, 


430  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

the  improprieties,  were  unknown  to  these  simple 
souls ;  they  did  things  because  they  were  right 
and  wrong.  They  were  not  nice,  according  to  Swift's 
definition,  nor  proper  in  the  mode  of  the  best  so 
ciety,  but  they  were  good  and  pure;  are  the  disciples 
and  lecturers  of  the  "  proper"  equally  so? 

Sally's  simple  preparations  were  quickly  made.  By 
nine  o'clock  she  was  safe  on  the  pillion  behind  Long 
Snapps,  folded  in  Aunt  Poll's  red  Joseph,  and  provided 
with  saddle-bags  full  of  comforts  and  necessaries. 
The  night  was  dark,  but  Sally  did  not  feel  any  fear ; 
not  Tarn  O'Shanter's  experience  could  have  shaken  the 
honest  little  creature's  courage,  when  George  filled  the 
perspective  before  her.  The  way  was  lonely ;  the 
hard  road  echoed  under  the  old  cart-horse's  hoofs ; 
many  a  black  and  desolate  tract  of  forest  lay  across 
their  twenty  miles'  ride  ;  mqre  than  once  the  tremulous 
shriek  of  a  screech-owl  smote  ominous  on  Sally's 
wakeful  sense,  and  quavered  away  like  a  dying  groan ; 
more  than  once  a  mournful  whip-poor-will  cried  out 
in  pain  and  expostulation,  and  in  the  young  leaves 
a  shivering  wind  foreboded  evil ;  but  they  rode 
on.  Presently  Sally's  drooping  head  rose  erect; 
she  listened  ;  she  laid  her  hand  on  the  bridle. 
"  Stop,  Long!  "  said  she.  "  I  hear  horses'  feet,  and 
shouts." 

"  Look  here  !  "  said  Long,  after  a  moment's  listening, 
"  there's  breakers  ahead,  Sally  ;  let's  heave  to  in  these 
'ere  piny  bushes  side  o'  the  track ;  it's  pitch-dark, 
mebbe  they'll  go  by." 

He  reined  the  horse  from  the  road,  and  forced  him 
into  a  group  of  young  hemlocks,  which  hid  them  entirely 
from  passers-by.  Just  as  he  was  well  ensconced,  a 


SALLY  PARSONS' S  DUTY.  431 

company  of  British  cavalry  rode  up,  broken  and  dis 
orderly  enough,  cursing  and  swearing  at  the  Yankees, 
and  telling  to  unseen  ears  a  blood}'  story  of  Concord 
and  its  men.  Sally  trembled,  but  it  was  with  indigna 
tion,  not  fear,  and  as  soon  as  the  last  hoof-beat  died 
away  she  urged  Long  forward ;  they  regained  the 
road,  and  made  their  way  at  once  to  George  in  Lexing 
ton. 

Is  it  well  to  paint,  even  in  failing  words,  such  emo 
tions  as  Sally  fought  with  and  conquered  in  that  hour? 
Whoever  has  stood  by  the  bed  of  a  speechless,  hope 
less,  unconscious  human  being,  in  whom  their  own  soul 
lived  and  suffered,  will  know  these  pangs  without  my 
interpretation.  Whoever  knows  them  not  need  not  so 
anticipate.  If  Sally  had  been  less  a  woman  I  might 
have  had  more  to  say  ;  but  she  was  only  a  woman,  and 
loved  George,  so  she  went  on  in  undisturbed  self- 
control  and  untiring  exertion  to  nurse  him. 

The  doctor  said  lie  could  not  live  ;  Long  said  he  was 
booked  for  Davy  Jones  ;  the  minister  prayed  for  ' '  our 
dying  brother  ;  "  —  but  Sally  said  he  should  live,  and 
he  did.  After  weeks  of  patient  care  he  knew  her ; 
after  more  weeks  he  spoke,  —  words  few,  but  precious  ; 
and  when  accumulating  months  brought  to  the  battle 
fields  of  America  redder  stains  than  even  patriotic 
blood  had  splashed  upon  their  leaves ;  when  one 
nation  began  to  hope,  and  another  to  fear,  both  hope 
and  fear  had  shaken  hands  with  Sally  and  said  good- 
by.  She  was  married  to  George  Tucker,  and  with  the 
prospect  of  a  crippled  husband  for  life  was  perfectly 
happy ;  too  happy  not  to  laugh,  when,  the  day  after 
their  wedding,  sitting  on  the  door-sill  of  the  old  West- 
bury  homestead,  with  George  and  Long  Snapps, 


432  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

George  said,  "Would  you  ever  have  come  to  take  care 
of  me,  Sally,  if  I'd  'a'  been  shot  on  the  side  of  the 
reg'lars?" 

Sally  looked  at  him,  and  then  looked  away. 

"  I  'xpect  she'd  'a'  done  her  dooty,"  said  Long 
Snapps  dryly  ;  and  Sally  laughed. 


A   HARD  LESSON.  433 


A    HARD    LESSON. 


"  Is  he  worse,  doctor?" 

"  No,  madam,  no.     I  cannot  say  he  is  worse." 

"  But  he  is  no  better?" 

"  Madam  Fontaine,  the  secrets  of  the  profession  — 
h'm  —  I'm  an  old  fellow  as  }TOU  know,  but  damme  !  I 
might  as  well  be  honest  for  once,  —  I  must  own  I  am 
at  my  wit's  end  about  the  judge." 

"Dr.  Levis!" 

A  shocked  exclamation ,  that  did  not  seem  to  pain  the 
doctor,  —  a  fat,  flabby,  elderly  man,  yellow  as  an  orange 
with  malaria,  whiskey,  and  tobacco :  a  trio  that  had 
taken  full  possession  of  him  for  many  a  year,  yet  had 
not  altogether  quenched  the  keen  ray  of  his  deep-set 
eye,  and  could  not  change  the  contour  of  his  head  and 
face,  or  do  more  than  degrade  and  darken  the  evident 
intellect  they  expressed. 

Mrs.  Fontaine  was  a  slight,  delicate  woman,  with 
soft,  dark  eye,  languid  lips,  abundant  black  hair,  small 
feet  and  hands,  a  typical  Southern  woman,  a  tender 
mother  and  a  devoted  wife,  full  of  the  inborn  convic 
tion  that  the  black  race  were  made  for  slavery,  and  the 
white  for  masters.  Judge  Fontaine,  her  husband,  was 
judge  by  courtes}- ;  he  had  studied  law  and  been  ad 
mitted  to  the  bar  of  Louisiana ;  but  he  put  a  definite 
end  to  his  legal  usefulness  by  marrying  Marie  Le 


434  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

Baron,  an  orphan  girl,  and  an  heiress.  Soon  after  this 
marriage  his  father  died,  and  left  him  master  of  another 
great  plantation  beside  Le  Rivage,  —  the  inheritance  of 
his  wife. 

But  they  did  not  live  at  Le  Rivage,  — it  was  not  a 
wholesome  place  for  white  people  ;  all  the  Le  Barons 
had  died  young,  saturated  with  malaria  from  the 
swamps  that  lay  all  about  the  great  fields  of  cotton  and 
cane  from  which  they  coined  their  dollars.  Marie  had 
been  educated  from  her  childhood  in  a  New  Orleans 
convent,  and  on  her  first  entrance  into  society  had  met 
Louis  Fontaine,  and  married  him  from  her  aunt's  house 
there  ;  for  Le  Rivage  was  uninhabited  except  by  the 
overseer.  Marie's  father,  mother,  brothers  and  sisters 
lay  on  the  tiny  enclosure  on  the  only  bit  of  rising 
ground  in  the  plantation,  and  she  expected  to  live  out 
her  life  in  the  city,  when  Colonel  Fontaine  died,  and 
Louis  took  possession  of  Rosieres,  —  his  inheritance. 
Rosieres  was  a  vast  and  productive  estate,  and  lonely  as 
only  a  home  can  be  set  miles  away  from  any  other  human 
habitation.  It  was  higher  than  the  Le  Barons'  estate, 
and  its  crops  were  of  upland  cotton ;  the  heavy  woods 
that  hemmed  in  those  rolling  acres  did  not  hide  altogether 
the  distant  river  that  half  circled  Le  Rivage,  and  took 
away  the  sense  of  solitude  by  its  ever-varied,  never-end 
ing  procession  of  smoke-wreathing  steamers.  Rosieres 
was  far  away  from  the  nearest  village,  — miles  lay  be 
tween  its  centre  and  the  homes  on  other  plantations  ; 
hospitalities  passed  between  them  at  rare  intervals,  and 
the  men  found  in  their  hunting  and  fishing  the  sole 
amusement  of  their  lives,  and  their  only  labor  in  the 
ordering  of  their  estates,  the  buying  and  selling  of 
slaves,  the  shipping  of  cotton,  and  the  semi-annual 


A   HARD  LESSON.  435 

visits  to  New  Orleans  for  purposes  of  traffic  and 
pleasure  ;  while  the  women  had  the  children  to  rear, 
their  irresponsible  house-slaves  to  scold,  and  the 
ignoble  army  of  the  quarters  to  clothe,  feed,  and  aid  as 
far  as  they  might  when  sickness  and  death  entered  the 
lowly  hut  as  inevitably  as  the  lordly  mansion.  Schools 
there  were  none  ;  every  house  had  its  governess  or 
tutor ;  and  Dr.  Levis,  the  only  physician  within  reach, 
had  a  plantation  of  his  own,  and  practised  his  pro 
fession  rather  as  an  occupation  than  a  necessity.  His 
patients  were  his  friends  ;  for  the  slaves  preferred  their 
own  healers  to  this  rough,  contemptuous  master,  who 
treated  them  as  he  would  not  treat  his  superb  horses  or 
his  thorough-bred  dogs. 

To-day  Dr.  Levis  was  puzzled.  He  had  an  acute 
brain,  some  perception,  much  common-sense,  and  such 
knowledge  added  to  his  course  of  study  in  a  celebrated 
northern  college  as  thirty  odd  years  of  experience  gave 
him.  He  was  a  fair,  old-fashioned  physician,  but  none 
of  the  remedies  and  experiments  of  modern  times  were 
at  his  command.  He  took  no  medical  journals,  for  he 
considered  that  he  knew  by  heart  all  the  range  of  dis 
eases  that  prevailed  in  the  neighborhood  ;  he  had  even 
had  yellow-fever  himself,  and  believed  it  perfectly  man 
ageable  ;  while  the  various  forms  of  malaria  were  to 
him  an  old  story.  He  knew  just  where  a  tisane  of  bitter 
sour-orange  was  of  use,  and  where  a  small  dose  of 
quinine  was  good  for  nothing  ;  but  for  a  case  not  in  his 
books  or  his  experience  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  con 
front  his  ignorance  and  own  it. 

He  had  to  do  this  now.  Judge  Fontaine  had  been  in 
a  languid,  irritable,  feeble  condition  for  weeks  ;  quinine 
did  not  seem  to  bring  him  up  except  for  the  hour  ;  food 


436  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

was  disgusting  to  him  ;  he  could  not  swallow  stimu 
lants,  and  a  heavy  depression,  impossible  to  throw  off, 
settled  down  upon  him  like  a  pall.  He  was  drowsy  or 
fretful  most  of  the  time,  and  nothing  Dr.  Levis  did 
seemed  to  be  of  any  use. 

He  turned  and  looked  sharply  at  Mrs.  Fontaine  as 
she  said,  "  Dr.  Levis  !  "  in  that  pained,  frightened  voice. 

"  Yes,  madam  !  Doctor  as  I  am,  I  don't  know  what 
to  do  for  Fontaine  any  more  than  you  do  !  " 

"  Did  Louis  show  you  his  le''t  arm  this  morning?  " 

"  His  arm  !  No.  He  was  so  glad  to  get  rid  of  me, 
or,  I  should  say,  so  infernally  snappish  at  seeing  me, 
that  I  made  a  short  visit,  I  can  tell  you.  What's  to 
do  about  his  arm?" 

"  Why,  there's  a  black  spot  on  it  as  big  as  my 
nail ;  and  there's  one  on  his  forehead,  too,  since  yes 
terday." 

"  H'm  !  "  Dr.  Levis  knitted  his  gray  brows,  and  set 
his  loose,  thick  lips  hard  together.  "  How  long  since 
the  spot  came  on  his  arm?" 

"  Stephen  found  it  last  night  when  he  bathed  him." 

"I'll  go  back  and  inspect,"  said  the  doctor;  and 
Mrs.  Fontaine  followed  him  into  the  sick  man's  cham 
ber. 

A  cool,  airy  room  it  was  ;  scrupulously  neat,  with 
all  the  air  that  stirred  that  warm  spring  day  blowing 
across  it  from  the  half-turned  Venetian  blinds  on  either 
side.  Judge  Fontaine  was  stretched  on  a  light  frame 
work  of  bamboo  and  cane  near  the  northern  window, 
with  only  a  sheet  thrown  over  his  stalwart  figure.  He 
was  a  handsome  man  in  health,  with  black  hair,  toler 
ably  fair  complexion,  and  dark,  long  eyes  ;  now  he  was 
pale,  thin,  and  a  sort  of  feverish  brightness  lit  his  usu- 


A   HARD  LESSON.  437 

ally  calm  countenance  ;  he  was  impatient  of  his  illness, 
and  turned  his  head,  as  the  door  gently  opened,  with  a 
vexed  look. 

"  Here  again,  Foutaine !  Bad  penny,  you  know. 
But  I  want  to  inspect  you  once  more,  for  I've  got  to  go 
down  to  the  city  to-morrow,  and  maybe  I  can  counsel 
there  with  my  brothers,  if  I  take  a  thorough  account  of 
your  symptoms  along." 

"  You  might  go  or  stay,  Levis,  for  my  care.  I  don't 
get  better  with  all  }7our  doses,  and  I  never  shall." 

"  Fudge  ! "  growled  the  doctor.  "  I  believe  you're  a 
d — d  humbug,  Louis.  Let  me  look  at  you  with  my 
spectacles.  Steve,  open  the  blind  !  " 

Stephen,  Judge  Fontaine's  body- servant,  stepped 
forward,  unfastened  the  catch,  and  gently  swung  the 
blind  backward.  He  was  a  tall,  well-made  mulatto, 
like  enough  in  every  feature  to  have  passed  for  his  mas 
ter's  brother,  except  for  the  deep  olive  of  his  skin. 
And  why  not?  —  for  he  was  Judge  Fontaine's  brother  ; 
only  Louis  was  the  son  of  the  free  woman  and  Stephen 
of  the  slave ! 

As  the  warm  light  streamed  in  on  the  sick  man's  face 
he  shut  his  eyes,  unused  to  even  the  tempered  glare  of 
day,  and  Dr.  Levis  saw  on  his  temple  a  dark  spot  like 
a  mole,  that  certainly  was  not  there  two  days  before. 
It  was  not  a  mole,  though,  for  not  even  the  slightest 
roughness,  or  rising,  indicated  any  such  thing ;  it  was 
merely  a  dark  spot,  as  if  the  juice  of  some  fruit,  or  the 
stain  of  a  drug,  had  touched  it. 

Dr.  Levis  turned  back  the  shirt-sleeve  on  the  sick 
man's  left  arm  a  little  way,  as  if  the  better  to  feel  his 
pulse,  and  there  on  the  wrist,  or  rather  just  above  tho 
articulation  of  the  wrist,  on  the  inside  of  the  arm, 


438  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

another  dark  spot  showed  against  the  unsunned  skin 
more  blackly  than  on  the  temple. 

For  a  moment  Dr.  Levis  was  startled.  Could  it  be 
the  black  flag  of  mortification  ?  But  the  steady  pulse 
forbade  such  a  diagnosis  ;  there  was  no  other  symptom 
to  further  the  idea.  Some  chronic  derangement  of  the 
liver  Judge  Fontaine  had  long  suffered  from  at  inter 
vals  ;  now  there  were  symptoms  also  of  digestive 
trouble,  but  nothing  that  could  or  would  induce  gan 
grene,  —  nothing  that,  to  the  doctor's  eye,  meant  vital 
mischief.  He  fell  back  on  the  last  resort  of  all  phy 
sicians,  —  change  of  place  and  air. 

"  Look  here,  old  fellow,"  he  said,  putting  on  a  hila 
rious  air,  as  Stephen  closed  the  blinds  again,  —  "  what 
you  want  is  a  course  of  Saratoga  water.  Take  Steve 
and  the  madam,  and  start  off  Monday  for  Congress 
Hall." 

"  I  can't  do  it,  Levis  !     You  know  I  can't." 

"  Fudge  !  Don't  tell  me.  By  George  !  you  shall  go, 
if  I  have  to  carry  you  to  the  boat.  Half  that  ails  you 
is  hypo.  Get  up  your  will,  man  !  The  moment  you're 
out  of  this  slew  you'll  begin  to  pick  up." 

Judge  Fontaine  laughed  f eebly .  To  him  the  ' '  slew  " 
of  this  dreadful  depression  and  irritation  seemed  the 
very  valley  of  death,  and  it  tickled  his  sense  of  humor 
that  hearty,  jolly  old  Levis,  standing  hale  and  heartsome 
in  the  sunshine,  should  tell  him  to  take  up  his  bed  and 
walk,  with  divine  prerogative. 

"  Since  when  did  you  go  into  miracle-working?  "  he 
asked,  looking  up  at  the  doctor  with  an  odd  twist  of 
his  pale  lips. 

"  Get  up,  I  say  ;  don't  talk  blasted  nonsense  !  You 
can,  if  you've  a  mind  to.  If  I  stuck  a  lighted  fagot 


A   HARD  LESSON.  439 

under  the  veranda  you'd  run.  like  a  lapwing  in  five 
minutes;  }TOU  want  excitement,  push, — not  a  cool 
lounge  and  unlimited  lemonade  or  orange-juice." 

Judge  Fontaine's  eye  kindled  ;  much  as  he  liked  Dr. 
Levis  he  did  not  like  to  be  bullied  in  this  fashion.  lie 
rose  on  one  elbow,  and  a  certain  warmth  that  was  not 
color  lit  his  sallow  cheek. 

"I  wish  I  could  fight  you,  Levis!  One  would 
think  I  was  your  red  setter,  to  hear  you  order  me 
about." 

"  Good  !  "  laughed  the  doctor.  "  Got  your  blood  up 
a  little.  Gad,  man !  I'd  fight  you  with  a  good  will  if 
you  could  stand  up  long  enough  ;  'twould  stir  you  up 
roundly,  better  than  Saratoga.  But,  seriously,  Louis,  I 
am  at  the  end  of  my  track  with  you.  I  can't  put  my 
finger  on  the  mischief.  I'm  old,  and  not  up  to  modern 
sciences.  You  must  go  North,  and  see  an  abler  man 
than  old  Hubert  Levis.  If  you  sta}r  here  }-ou'll  just 
sink  ;  the  heats  are  coming  on  ;  May  will  be  here  in  a 
fortnight,  and  I  want  you  to  get  to  New  York  by  the 
first  of  the  month.  Set  off  to-morrow ;  don't  wait  to 
think." 

Judge  Fontaine  sunk  back  wearity  on  to  his  pillows. 

"  I  don't  care  a  picayune,  Levis,  whether  I  get  well 
or  not." 

""D — it!"  roared  the  doctor,  in  a  most  unseemly 
passion.  "  Haven't  you  got  a  wife  and  children  to 
think  of?" 

Mrs.  Fontaine  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears  ;  she  was 
not  well,  and  she  was  worn  out  with  anxiety. 

"  O  Marie!  don't  cry,  child!"  sighed  her  husband. 
"  Don't  mind  my  petulance,  dear!  I  was  just  weary 
enough  to  feel  like  dying  that  minute,  Levis  has  badg- 


440  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

ered  me  so ;  but  you  know  I  don't  want  to  leave 
and  the  babies." 

Mrs.  Fontaine  choked  her  sobs,  and  kissed  her  hus 
band's  cold  forehead,  while  the  doctor  paced  up  and 
down,  growling  under  his  breath  all  the  anger  he  felt. 
He  had  small  patience  with  what  he  called  "  fudge,"  — 
his  favorite  term  for  anything  that  seemed  to  him  pre 
tence  or  feebleness  of  will. 

Judge  Fontaine  looked  tenderly  at  his  wife's  pale 
face  and  tear-filled  eyes  ;  he  was  not  more  selfish  than 
other  men  are  by  nature,  and  Marie  was  a  part  of  him 
self  ;  he  would  try  to  live  for  her  sake,  and  for  the 
sturdy  boy  of  five,  and  the  twin  girls  of  two,  who 
were  laughing  and  prattling  under  the  great  catalpa 
tree,  that  dropped  its  spotted  bells  on  the  pavement  of 
the  court-yard,  and  sent  its  odorous  breath  into  his 
chamber. 

"  I'll  try,  doctor,"  he  said,  with  an  evident  effort. 

"Good!  Man  can't  do  more.  Mammy  is  safe  to 
take  care  of  the  youngsters  ;  or  I'll  carr}T  them  off  to 
Lone  Palm,  if  you  like,  while  madam  is  away." 

"  Doctor,  I  can't  go  ;  you  forget,"  said  Mrs.  Fon 
taine,  in  a  half  whisper,  a  wave  of  faint  color  rising  to 
the  edges  of  her  shining  hair. 

"So  you  can't!  I'm  an  old  fool.  Well,  Fontaine 
will  have  the  less  care,  and  Steve  will  watch  over  him 
like  a  brother !  " 

A  flash  in  Stephen's  eye,  as  he  stooped  to  pick  up  his 
master's  handkerchief,  might  have  warned  Dr.  Levis 
that  he  had  forgotten  again,  had  he  seen  it ;  but  he  saw 
nothing  except  a  change  in  the  judge's  face,  a  look  he 
liked  to  see  there,  for  the  far-off  expression  of  the  eye 
was  gone  ;  it  seemed  to  have  recalled  sight  to  the  things 


A   HARD  LESSON.  441 

at  hand,  to  have  taken  a  new  outlook  on  life,  to  be  once 
more  a  vital  spark,  not  a  fading  glimmer. 

So  the  next  day  Judge  Fontaine  and  Stephen,  in  the 
easiest  of  carriages,  with  every  appliance  to  be  pro 
cured  in  that  lonely  region,  began  their  journey  to  the 
nearest  landing-place  on  the  river,  leaving  a  pale,  but 
tearless,  woman  on  the  veranda  looking  after  them  with 
sorrowful  longing,  and  three  wondering  children,  who 
could  not  understand  why  papa  should  go  away  and 
mamma  cry.  It  was  a  tedious  journey  to  Judge  Fon 
taine,  and  when  he  reached  New  York  he  was  quite 
exhausted ;  but  the  physicians  there  seemed  to  be  as 
much  at  fault  as  Dr.  Levis.  None  of  them  noticed  the 
dark  spots  on  his  forehead  and  arm,  and  Stephen  did 
not  know  that  the  old  doctor  had  ever  observed  them. 
One  man,  whose  specialty  was  disease  of  the  liver,  im 
mediately  pronounced  him  "  Bilious,  nothing  more." 
Another,  who  had  studied  affections  of  the  heart,  laid 
his  condition  at  the  door  of  that  long-suffering  organ  ; 
and  each  one  he  consulted  fixed  his  malady  on  some 
part  of  his  organization  that  the  last  diagnosis  had 
omitted  ;  but  in  one  thing  all  agreed  :  change  of  air  and 
cheerful  society  must  be  tried  at  once.  It  was  a  late 
season  and  too  cold  for  Saratoga,  so  Judge  Fontaine 
went  to  Newport  for  a  month,  and,  in  pleasant  lodgings 
in  that  quaint  old  town,  fancied  thattlie  pure  sea-breeze 
revived  him. 

So  it  did,  a  little ;  but  as  he  grew  somewhat  better 
Stephen  noticed  that  the  black  spots  spread ;  another 
showed  on  one  cheek  just  under  the  eye,  and  on  one 
leg  a  patch  appeared  as  large  as  a  child's  palm. 

"  It  is  nothing  mortal,"  said  the  little  Quaker  physi 
cian  whom  he  had  called  in, — a  quaint,  considerate, 


442  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

old  man,  with  almost  a  life's  experience  of  diseases  and 
their  treatment.  "  Thee  can  call  them  moth-patches 
if  thee  likes,  friend  F'ontaine  ;  it  is  a  disorder  of  the 
true  skin,  or  rather  of  the  pigment  therein  ;  we  regard 
it  as  a  rather  obscure  ailment,  probably  connected  with 
the  liver.  A  thorough  course  of  Congress  water,  fresh 
from  the  spring,  will  probably  prove  beneficial  to  thee." 

So  early  in  June  the  judge  established  himself  in  a 
private  boarding-house  in  Saratoga.  He  grew  more 
languid  and  depressed  here  ;  the  sick  people  who  filled 
the  house  were  not  altogether  a  cheerful  crowd.  To  sit 
down  at  table  thrice  a  da}r  with  exemplifications  of 
paralysis,  brain-softening,  spinal  distortion,  jaundice, 
and  other  evils  too  numerous  to  mention,  is  not  calcu 
lated  to  raise  the  spirits  of  a  well  man  ;  and  the  in 
creasing  size  of  the  dark  spot  on  the  judge's  face  began 
to  annoy  him  :  he  thought  that  all  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
it ;  that  he  was  a  marked  man,  in  a  most  obnoxious 
sense.  He  had  always  been  conscious,  to  say  the  least, 
of  his  handsome  face  and  figure  ;  but  now  he  shunned  a 
mirror  as  if  it  were  a  poisonous  reptile,  and  only 
Stephen  knew  that  the  spot  on  his  leg  was  fast  cover 
ing  it,  and  that  the  other  ankle  was  blackening  too, 
while  the  blotch  on  the  temple  spread  daily. 

Saratoga  is  a  very  stupid  place  to  people  who  do  not 
care  for  fashion,  show,  or  horse-racing.  There  is  but 
one  pleasant  drive  near  it,  and  walking  is  dreary  and 
difficult  in  the  sand-barrens  or  yellow-pine  groves  on 
its  outskirts.  June  was  not  well  over  before  Judge 
Fontaine  was  as  weary  of  it  all  as  Mariana  of  the 
Moated  Grange  ;  and  he  and  Stephen  set  off  for  the 
mountains  of  Vermont,  finding  a  resting-place  on  a 
lonely,  but  lovely,  mountain  side,  where  some  enter- 


A  HARD  LESSON.  443 

prising  Yankee  had  built  a  tavern  and  now  took  summer 
boarders.  There  the  judge  grew  stronger ;  but  tbe 
plague-spot  spread  more  and  more  rapidly.  To  be  brief, 
by  the  time  September  set  in,  the  blackness  on  his 
temple  had  invaded  his  face,  his  arms,  his  hands,  his 
legs  and  feet,  and  a  part  of  his  body.  Louis  Fontaine 
was  a  negro  to  every  eye  but  his  own  ;  and,  at  last, 
an  overheard  conversation  between  two  of  the  hotel 
servants  opened  his  e\Tes  to  his  condition. 

Words  are  very  weak  sometimes  ;  never  weaker  than 
in  the  attempt  to  express  the  darkest  and  most  evil 
experiences  of  man  ;  the  inward  hurricane  and  tempest 
of  rage,  despair,  and  agony,  that  sometimes  ravage  and 
lay  waste  the  soul  which  is  helpless  to  avoid  or  avert 
an  overwhelming  calamity.  There  was  but  one  thing 
left  to  Louis  Fontaine,  that  which  is  left  to  the  mor 
tally  smitten  wild  beast,  and  is  the  instinctive  action 
of  man ;  he  must  go  home  and  hide  himself.  But  to 
Stephen,  a  slave,  a  man  with  more  than  half  white 
blood,  running  its  subtle  currents  under  his  dark  skin, 
here  was  an  opportunity. 

The  Fontaines  had  been  fairly  kind  to  their  slaves, 
not  sparing  of  castigation,  to  be  sure,  — a  little  more 
than  ordinary  parental  discipline  demands.  Stephen's 
mother  was  the  daughter  of  Louis  Fontaine's  uncle, 
and  General  Fontaine's  favorite  slave. 

Favorite !  What  depths  of  degradation  that  same 
word  means  from  a  master  to  a  slave  !  Her  daughter, 
an  exquisitely  beautiful  quadroon,  had  held  the  same 
relation  to  Louis  Fontaine's  father,  and,  being  found 
in  the  house  by  Colonel  Fontaine's  bride,  —  a  French 
Creole  heiress  from  New  Orleans,  —  had  been,  by  sev 
eral  instalments,  to  save  appearances,  whipped  to 


444  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN 

death  by  Anastasie  Fontaine's  orders,  and  her  baby 
given  to  an  old  woman  in  the  slave-quarters  to 
"  raise." 

Stephen,  the  grandson  of  Louis  Fontaine's  uncle, 
and  his  father's  son,  had  double  portions  of  the  fiery 
Fontaine  blood  in  his  veins,  and  yet  he  had  not  escaped 
the  lash  or  forgotten  the  story  of  his  mother's  death. 
For  years  he  had  been  madly  athirst  for  freedom  ;  but 
the  Caucasian  subtlety  he  inherited  taught  him  to  con 
ceal  his  wishes  and  intent  till  the  time  should  come. 
It  had  come  now. 

Judge  Fontaine  had  regained  his  physical  health 
almost  entirely,  and  when  he  set  out  for  home  he  had 
money  enough  to  take  him  and  his  servant  to  Rosieres, 
and  some  to  spare  for  emergencies.  Stephen  possessed 
himself  of  half  the  gold  in  his  master's  trunk,  and  half 
the  judge's  wardrobe. 

AVhat  did  he  know  about  the  rights  of  property?  He 
had  never  even  owned  himself  ! 

At  the  station  where  he  should  have  taken  the  train 
southward  two  trains  met,  —  one  for  New  York,  one 
for  Canada.  Stephen  dutifully  checked  his  master's 
baggage,  bought  his  ticket,  and  as  the  northern  train 
slipped  on  to  a  siding  for  the  other  to  pass,  the  son  of 
the  bondwoman,  valise  in  hand,  with  his  master's  stiff 
hat  on  his  fine  head,  and  his  master's  coat  on  his  back, 
stepped  into  the  Canada  train,  —  a  well-behaved,  good- 
looking,  rather  dark-complexioned  gentleman,  who  sat 
down  in  that  first-class  car  a  slave,  and  emerged  from 
it,  five  hours  later,  a  free  man  on  Canadian  soil. 

For,  dear  reader,  this  was  ante-bellum. 
•    Judge   Fontaine,  quite  forgetful  of  his  own  aspect 
for  the  moment,  and  supposing  Stephen,  as  usual,  was 


A   HARD  LI'S  SON.  445 

in  another  car,  entered  that  at  whose  door  his  valet 
had  left  him,  and  proceeded  to  a  seat. 

"  You  can't  sit  here  ! "  bawled  the  conductor,  a  little 
way  from  the  door ;  but  Mr.  Fontaine  did  not  at  all 
understand  that  the  remark  was  intended  for  him. 
The  conductor  came  forward  just  as  the  judge  seated 
himself  by  the  window.  "  Say  !  You  can't  sit  here, 
I  tell  ye.  Come  along  to  the  back  car,"  the  peremptory 
official  said. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  retorted  the  angry 
planter. 

"  Mean  !     I  mean  niggers  aint  allowed  on  this  car." 

"  Good  God,  sir  !  "  roared  the  judge,  "  do  you  mean 
to  insult  me?  Me  !  — Judge  Fontaine,  of  Louisiana." 

A  general  laugh  echoed  the  statement. 

"  Put  him  out,  conductor ! "  said  the  nearest  man, 
and  "  Put  him  out !  "  was  reechoed  all  about. 

"Come  along,"  said  the  sturdy  conductor,  "or  I'll 
hev  to  fetch  ye." 

And  promptly  the  irate  judge  knocked  him  down. 

This  was  too  much.  Ready  hands  caught  the  ag 
gressor's  arms,  set  the  conductor  on  his  feet,  and  Judge 
Fontaine,  of  Louisiana,  was  ignominiously  hustled  into 
a  baggage-car,  locked  in,  and  left  to  digest  his  wrath. 

He  roared  and  swore,  and  planned  vengeance  on  his 
captors,  but  wondered  where  was  Stephen.  At  the  end 
of  the  route  he  must  find  him,  and  prove  to  the  officials 
his  status  as  a  gentleman. 

Before  that  came,  however,  the  conductor  of  the 
train  left  at  a  station,  and  when  the  cars  were  again 
moving  another  one  unlocked  the  door  and  came  in. 

"  Look  here  !  "  he  said  quietly  to  Mr.  Fontaine  ;  "  the 
conductor  of  t'other  half  told  me  to  look  after  you. 


446  TI1E  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

What's  the  matter'tyou  blew  out  so,  my  man?  Haven't 
you  never  travelled  before  ?  Don't  you  know  colored 
folks  aint  allowed  in  first-class  cars?" 

"Good  God,  man!  do  you  take  me  for  a  black 
boy?"  burst  out  the  unfortunate  judge. 

"  I  don't  know  what  else  you  be,  to  look  at  you," 
said  the  cool  Yankee. 

"I  tell  you  I'm  Judge  Fontaine,  of  Louisiana;  I'm 
a  white  man.  This  dreadful  color  of  my  skin  is  a  dis 
ease." 

"  Oh,  come  now,"  said  the  conductor,  "  that's  rather 
too  steep  ;  don't  tell  yarns  that  are  too  big  to  swaller, 
mend.  Sam  was  goin'to  have  you  up  for  kuockin'  him 
over,  but  he  thought  better  on't ;  he  couldn't  afford  to 
be  off  for  lawiu'  of  it,  and  I'm  tryin'  to  deal  reasonable 
with  you.  Don't  try  to  stuff  me." 

"  But  my  servant  is  on  board  somewhere  ;  he'll  swear 
to  my  identity.  Find  him,  for  God's  sake  !  —  he's  a  light 
mulatto,  with  curly  brown  hair  and  an  aquiline  nose. 
He's  in  the  rear  car." 

"  No,  he  isn't.  No  such  feller  round.  You're 
addin'  too  many  circumstances." 

"  But,  look  here  !  "  said  the  baffled  judge.  "  Here's 
my  check  ;  find  the  trunk  and  see  if  m}-  name  isn't  on 
it,  if  that  will  convince  you." 

The  conductor  poked  about  among  the  baggage  and 
came  back. 

"  It's  there  ;  but  I  smell  a  rat,  young  feller  !  It  looks 
to  me  as  though  you  was  goin'  off  with  your  master's 
trunk  and  things  without  his  pussonal  knowledge  an' 
consent,  as  you  may  say  ;  but  you'd  ought  to  have 
headed  for  Canady,  if  that  is  so ;  your  ticket  was 
bought  pretty  near  the  border." 


A  HARD   LESSON.  447 

Judge  Fontaine  started  ;  a  new  idea  struck  him.  But, 
no,  it  was  nonsense.  Stephen  never  would  have  left 
so  good  a  master,  so  pleasant  a  home  ;  he  must  have 
been  confused,  and  taken  the  wrong  train. 

The  conductor  stood  glaring  at  him  with  stern  sus 
picion. 

"  Prove  it,  then,  if  you  can,"  said  the  judge,  his 
legal  training  coming  to  his  aid. 

"  Well,  I  shan't  try  ;  if  you're  a  poor  devil  tryin'  to 
run  away  from  them  nigger-owners  down  South,  as  I 
mistrust  you  be,  why,  joy  go  with  ye  ;  I  wouldn't  lift  a 
finger  to  hender."  And  the  kindly  conductor  went  his 
way,  little  guessing  that  the  rushing  wheels  alone  pre 
vented  his  hearing  the  epithet  Judge  Fontaine  hurled 
after  him  :  "  Damned  abolitionist !  " 

But  silence  and  solicitude  brought  counsel ;  in  a  few 
hours  the  train  would  reach  the  ferry  and  New  York. 
He  could  go  at  once  to  the  hotel  where  he  had  stayed 
before,  and  from  there  telegraph  back  to  Split  Rock 
House,  —  the  mountain  hotel  he  had  just  that  morning 
left, —  and  have  Stephen  come  after  him.  The  conductor 
had  left  the  door  unlocked,  and  the  judge  had  no  trouble 
in  finding  his  way  out  of  the  station.  It  was  night  by 
this  time,  and  tying  a  handkerchief  about  the  lower 
part  of  his  face,  and  slouching  his  soft  hat  far  on  his 
forehead,  he  managed  to  secure  a  carriage  and  have  his 
trunk  brought  to  it.  He  gave  the  order  to  drive  to 
Blank  Hotel,  and  drew  a  relieved  breath,  sure  of  a  place 
where  he  should  be  known,  and  could  wait  till  his  body- 
servant  returned.  Poor  man  !  he  had  not  yet  discov 
ered  that  people  with  black  bodies  could  have  no  ser 
vants,  nor  3'et  serve  themselves  alone.  He  paid  the 
hackman,  and,  following  his  trunk  into  the  hotel,  walked 


448  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

up  to  the  desk  in  the  office,  and  addressed  the 
clerk :  — 

"  Peters,  how  are  you?  Give  me  a  good  room,  will 
you  ?  The  one  I  had  before,  if  you  can." 

The  dapper  clerk,  famous  for  never  forgetting  a  coun 
tenance,  turned  to  look  at  the  new-comer,  and  his  face 
blazed  with  anger. 

"  You  can't  have  a  room  here,  my  man.  Don't  you 
know  better  than  to  ask  for  it  ?  " 

"  Peters,  don't  you  know  me?  Don't  you  remember 
Judge  Fontaine?  Why,  I  was  here  a  month  in  May." 

"  Come,  now,  that  is  cheeky.  Judge  Fontaine  ought 
to  be  here.  You'd  get  your  quietus  and  a  flogging  be 
side.  Go  off,  fellow,  or  I'll  call  the  police  !  " 

"  I  tell  you  I  am  Judge  Fontaine,"  angrily  answered 
the  poor  planter,  wrath  and  distress  raging  in  his 
breast.  "  This  skin  is  the  result  of  a  dreadful  disease. 
I  am  a  white  man  !  " 

"  I  like  that !  "  sneered  the  clerk.  "  About  as  white 
as  coal,  you  are.  But  the  disease  dodge  is  a  new  one. 
By  George  !  "  seizing  the  judge  by  the  collar,  and  draw 
ing  him  to  a  near  gas-jet,  which  he  turned  on  to  its  full 
blaze,  "I've  got  you  now.  I  thought  I  knew  your 
features.  You're  Stephen,  the  judge's  body-servant,  or 
else  his  twin-brother  !  " 

Just  then  his  eye  fell  on  the  trunk,  a  foreign  article 
of  luggage,  which  he  had  noticed  when  Mr.  Fontaine 
was  there  before. 

"  And  there's  his  trunk,  by  Jove  !  Rascal,  what  have 
you  done  with  your  master  ?  " 

A  pang,  keener  than  any  blade  of  Damascus,  went 
through  the  judge's  soul.  Some  long-past  time,  when 
he  had  been  to  church  with  his  old  grandmother  in  the 


A   HARD  LESSON.  449 

city,  himself  only  a  youth  at  school,  he  had  heard  in 
the  lesson  for  the  day  certain  quaint  morals  about  the 
sins  of  the  fathers  being  visited  on  the  children  ;  and 
now,  by  some  divinely-ordered  palimpsest,  the  fearful 
sentence  returned  on  him.  Stephen  was  his  brother,  if 
he  was  his  slave  His  father's  sin,  hitherto  scarce  a 
peccadillo  in  the  son's  judgment,  stared  him  close  in 
the  face,  and  threatened  vengeance.  The  likeness 
that  was  Stephen's  right  was  to  be  his  own  condem 
nation 

In  a  moment  the  clerk  had  a  porter  at  his  side,  and 
between  them  the  angnr  planter  was  shut  into  a  small 
bedroom,  the  door  locked,  and  the  proprietor  of  the 
house  summoned  to  a  consultation.  To  arrest  the  man 
on  suspicion  of  murdering  his  master  was  the  clerk's 
first  idea ;  but  the  cooler  head  of  the  landlord  de 
murred. 

The}7  had  no  proof  except  the  trunk,  which  he  prob 
ably  had  stolen.  It  was  not  like  a  murderer  to  attempt 
to  pass  himself  off  as  a  white  man.  The  story  he  told 
the  clerk  looked  more  like  the  figment  of  a  disordered 
brain  than  the  subterfuge  of  a  criminal,  and  at  last, 
after  much  conversation  pro  and  con,  the  landlord  re 
solved  to  see  and  question  the  man  himself. 

But  the  man  was  not  there  !  Shut  up  by  main  force 
to  await  the  judgment  of  his  fellows  —  no,  the  judg 
ment  of  white  men  on  a  black  —  Louis  Fontaine  per 
ceived  how  hopeless  was  his  case. 

He  remembered,  almost  against  his  will,  by  a  reluct 
ant  recollection,  how  little  reliance  he  had  ever  placed 
on  the  word  of  a  slave  ;  how  protestations,  prayers, 
cries,  had  vainly  interceded  with  him  for  mercy  when 
his  superior  intellect  had  once  decided  on  guilt  —  even 


450  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

on  mere  disobedience.  Had  not  Stephen  himself — 
his  brother  according  to  the  flesh — been  beaten  with 
stripes,  mangled,  and  scarred,  because  he  refused  to 
take  to  himself  a  wife  picked  out  for  him  by  the  over 
seer,  and  add  other  items  to  the  sum  of  slavery's  wrong 
and  woe? 

He  began  to  see  that  "If  lions  could  paint,"  works  of 
art  would  depict  men  as  sometimes  victims  rather  than 
always  conquerors,  and  that  a  slave  might  tell  a  differ 
ent  and  sadder  story  than  the  master,  could  he  only 
have  the  gift  of  tongue  and  pen. 

But  the  practical  result  of  these  meditations  as  re 
lated  to  his  own  case  was  the  immediate  resolve  to 
escape  rather  than  await  justice  —  white  justice. 

Luckily  for  him  a  painter  had  been  at  work  on  the 
outside  of  the  house,  and  left  his  ladder  hanging  on  an 
awning  fixture  outside  the  little  window-balcony  of  Mr. 
Fontaine's  temporary  prison  ;  this  he  perceived  as  he 
cautiously  lifted  the  sash  and  peered  about  him  for 
means  of  flight.  His  hands  were  strong,  the  street 
was  a  side  street,  the  room  he  was  in  on  the  corner  of 
a  gangway  shut  in  by  an  iron  grating  and  door  from 
the  sidewalk ;  in  a  few  moments  he  had  made  his  way 
to  the  ground,  climbed  the  iron  fence  where  it  was 
in  shadow,  and  on  the  platform  of  a  horse-car,  that 
came  by  at  an  opportune  moment,  he  rode  as  far  as 
the  belt-line  went,  and  found  himself  at  a  pier  on  the 
North  river.  That  night  Louis  Fontaine,  with  abun 
dance  of  money  about  him,  a  man  used  to  all  luxury 
and  elegance,  to  sleep  soft  and  eat  daintily,  curled 
himself  up  in  an  empty  hogshead  and  tried  to  forget 
his  fate  till  day  should  dawn. 

He  did  not  occupy  his  thoughts,  however,  with  great 


A   HARD  LESSON.  451 

questions  of  wrong  and  right ;  it  was  not  in  him  to 
accept  the  awful  lesson  set  him,  with  eager  desire 
to  learn  ;  he  was  far  more  disturbed  about  the  imme 
diate  future  of  Judge  Fontaine  than  the  whole  slave 
population  of  creation,  and  he  at  last  resolved  to  push 
homeward  at  once,  leaving  the  dangerous  trunk  behind 
him. 

'  He  ventured  out  at  early  dawn  from  his  tub,  feeling 
much  less  philosophic  than  Diogenes,  and  at  a  coffee- 
stall  kept  by  a  fat  old  negress  made  a  rude,  but  pala 
table,  breakfast,  and  set  out  for  his  home.  It  would  take 
a  volume  to  relate  what  a  week  of  torture  he  passed 
before  he  could  reach  the  great  river  :  scorned,  flouted, 
sworn  at  for  a  "  damned  nigger,"  treated  to  even  viler 
and  severer  pellets  of  profanity,  relegated  to  dirty  emi 
grant  cars,  forced  to  sleep  in  the  unclean  attics  of 
hotels,  where  he  had  to  eat  with  the  black  servants,  if 
there  were  any,  or  have  food  served  to  him  in  wash-house 
or  shed,  as  a  dog  might  be  served,  if  none  of  the  ob 
noxious  color  were  at  hand  to  befriend  him ;  ordered 
here  and  there  by  "  high-toned"  gentlemen,  of  the  sort 
whose  boon-companion  he  once  had  been,  the  poor 
wretch  suffered  agonies  of  humiliation  and  rage. 

At  last  he  reached  St.  Louis,  and  took  a  deck 
passage  —  all  he  could  take  —  on  one  of  the  splendid 
steamers  where  he  had  been  used  to  the  airest  state 
room  and  the  best  seat  at  table.  Now  he  carried  his 
food  in  a  great  basket,  for  he  must  provide  for  the 
rest  of  his  journey ;  and  his  cheap  valise  served  for 
pillow  by  night  and  seat  by  day,  holding  as  it  did  only 
a  few  changes  of  linen  purchased  at  a  shop  in  New 
York.  Here,  coiled  up  in  a  corner,  he  watched  men 
and  women  whom  he  knew  at  least  by  sight,  some  of 


452  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

them  personally,  promenading  on  the  upper  deck, 
laughing  and  talking  together  as  once  he  had  laughed 
and  talked  with  his  compeers. 

Now  his  sole  notice  was  a  rough  jest  from  the  hands 
of  the  boat,  or  a  curse  from  some  official  thrown  at  the 
"  sulky  nigger,"  who  never  offered  a  helping  hand  in 
any  strait,  but  kept  himself  in  his  nook,  neither  eating 
nor  drinking  with  any  of  his  color,  nor  exchanging 
cheery  word  or  wholesome  laughter  with  his  kind. 
Gangs  of  slaves  were  driven  on  and  driven  off,  but  he 
never  looked  at  them !  What  were  their  deprivations 
to  his  ?  They  were  born  into  an  estate  of  sin  and  mis 
ery  in  a  sense  the  divines  of  Westminster  never  knew  ; 
he  had  been  hurled  out  of  Paradise,  his  birthright, 
into  a  howling  wilderness  full  of  thorns  and  briers. 
But  there  was  one  gleam  of  light  that  led  him  on  :  he 
was  going  home,  home  to  his  wife,  his  children  ;  there, 
in  the  solitude  of  Rosieres,  healing  and  rest  awaited 
him.  Marie,  the  most  devoted  wife  and  mother,  a 
woman  of  women,  given  soul  and  body  to  him  and 
their  children,  living  utterly  for  and  in  them,  on  her  he 
could  rely  to  console  him  for  these  agonies  of  flesh  and 
spirit ;  for,  with  all  outside  tortures,  there  came  also 
the  horrors  of  prophetic  imagination,  pictures  rising 
before  him  of  all  the  future  could,  must,  bring;  even 
his  dreams  were  lurid  with  horrid  or  fantastic  situa 
tions,  all  turning  on  the  pivot  of  his  discolored  visage. 

Weak  and  weary  with  all  this,  at  length  the  boat 
reached  that  lovely  landing  where  he  and  Stephen  had 
embarked  on  their  northern  journey. 

No  luxurious  carriage  waited  for  him  here  ;  he  had 
not  sent  for  it  when  he  wrote  that  he  was  coming ;  he 
did  not  want  to  face  his  slaves,  to  assert  and  vindicate 


A   HARD  LESSON.  453 

to  them  his  identity ;  his  one  thought  was  to  reach 
home  and  Marie,  to  find  counsel  as  well  as  comfort, 
lie  could  hire  neither  horse  nor  wheeled  vehicle  here  ; 
there  was  nothing  at  the  landing  but  a  negro  hut  and  a 
wood-yard.  With  a  sinking  heart  Judge  Fontaine  set 
out  for  the  plantation  on  foot.  He  dared  not  be  out  at 
night  without  a  pass,  still  less  dared  he  sleep  in  the 
malarious  open  air  ;  his  pride  fell  to  its  lowest  depth,  it 
seemed  to  him,  when  he  was  forced  to  ask  shelter  at  the 
quarters  of  some  plantation,  and  sleep  beside  the  slaves 
of  a  friend  or  acquaintance.  The  fourth  day  of  his  pil 
grimage,  which  was  neither  a  penance  nor  an  enthu 
siasm,  but  a  heart-broken  journe^y,  he  arrived  just 
before  sunset  at  Rosieres.  He  did  not  enter  at  the 
front  door,  but  stole  through  a  young  orange-grove 
planted  close  to  the  veranda,  on  which  his  room  opened, 
as  well  as  his  wife's  morning-room,  and,  sheltered  by 
the  glossy  boughs,  went  softly  up  to  the  open  window. 
There  sat  Marie,  in  a  light  dress  that  set  off  her  delicate 
loveliness,  a  single  pomegranate  blossom  flaming  in  her 
shining  hair,  and  with  one  cry  of  relief  and  joy  he 
stepped  in  beside  her. 

She  rose  to  her  feet  swiftly,  and  looked  at  him  with 
colorless  lips  ;  but  her  courage  was  high. 
/'  What  do  you  want  here?  "  she  asked,  haughtily. 

"  Marie!  " 

The  name  burst  from  his  lips  like  the  cry  of  a  mur 
dered  man.  She  moved  toward  the  bell,  but  he  was 
nearest  it  and  stepped  before  her. 

"  Marie  !     Don't  you  know  me?   I  am  Louis." 

A  look  of  disgust  and  terror  passed  over  her  pale 
face ;  before  he  could  prevent  it  she  drew  a  little  dog- 
whistle  from  her  belt,  and,  at  its  shrill  call,  a  great 


454  TEE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

mastiff  hustled  itself  through  the  door  and  flew  at  the 
intruder. 

Fontaine  lifted  his  hand  and  said,  "Down,  Bear !  " 

The  great  brute  knew  his  master !  He  crouched, 
fawned,  slavered  on  the  black  hand,  leaped  to  the  stal 
wart  shoulder,  and  licked  the  black  face,  taught  by  the 
instinct,  that  had  shown  the  wife  nothing,  to  recognize 
the  man  he  loved,  and  loved  still,  spite  of  color. 

Judge  Fontaine  looked  at  Marie  with  bitter  sadness. 
"  The  dog  knows  me,  but  you"  — 

She  trembled  from  head  to  foot ;  every  inborn  preju 
dice  of  race  and  usage  revolted  at  the  assertion  that 
this  black  was  her  husband  ;  but  Bear's  glad  recogni 
tion,  the  well-known  voice,  the  peculiar  growth  and 
color  of  the  hair, — what  could  she  think  of  these  ? — how 
account  for  them?  With  burning  anguish  at  his  heart, 
Louis  Fontaine  controlled  himself  sternly,  for  he  must 
explain  before  there  was  any  interruption. 

"Sit  down,  Marie!"  he  said.  "Let  me  tell  my 
story  ;  I  dared  not  write  it."  And,  with  the  eloquence 
of  a  hunted  slave  added  to  the  power  of  thought  and 
language  owed  to  his  education,  he  laid  before  her  in 
every  wretched  detail  the  life  he  had  led  since  the  un 
pardonable  color  had  invaded  for  once  the  skin  of  a 
master.  Her  lips  quivered,  her  eyes  poured  floods  of 
tears  ;  she  overflowed  with  pity,  but  her  heart  fainted 
at  his  aspect. 

He  could  only  see  the  tears,  and  the}*  fell  like  balm 
on  the  wounds  he  had  bared  before  her ;  he  came 
toward  her  with  eager  steps  and  opened  wide  his  arms 
to  embrace  her.  Alas  !  she  shuddered  and  recoiled. 
She  could  no  more  help  it  than  she  could  help  breath 
ing.  A  black  her  husband  ! 


A   HARD  LESSON.  455 

It  was  loathsome,  unnatural,  impossible.  And  the 
revolt  of  her  whole  nature  was  evident  in  face  and 
form. 

Louis  Fontaine  stood  paralyzed  ;  this  was  an  ab3'ss 
he  had  never  imagined.  What  could  be  done  ?  Where 
was  the  end  ?  With  a  dreadful  effort  he  recalled  him 
self  to  sense  and  composure. 

"Marie!"  he  said,  coldly  and  curtly,  "you  must 
face  the  situation.  I  will  go  to  m}T  room  and  to  bed. 
Tell  the  servants  I  have  come  home  ill ;  let  none  of 
them  come  to  me,  but  send  a  bo}'  over  to  Lone  Palm 
for  Levis.  Has  Stephen  come  back  ?" 

"  Stephen  !   Is  he  not  with  3-ou?"  she  asked,  feebty. 

Then  he  knew  what  had  happened.  Stephen  had 
taken  to  himself  the  liberty  his  father  and  his  brother 
denied  him  ;  and  now  Judge  Fontaine  understood  why 
his  money  had  seemed  to  melt  awa\-,  for,  with  the 
lavish  carelessness  of  his  kind,  he  had  never  counted 
the  gold  he  had  carried  always  hidden  about  him  when 
he  travelled,  and  its  deficiency  had  not  troubled  him 
since  he  had  enough  to  reach  home ;  but  he  wondered 
vaguely  that  so  little  was  left.  Stephen  had  spared 
him  ample  means  ^to  reach  home,  but  he  did  not  ask 
himself  if,  in  a  reversed  situation,  he  would  have  been 
so  considerate  of  Stephen.  The  lesson  was  far  from 
learned  as  yet. 

It  was  midnight  before  the  rapid  hoofs  of  Dr.  Levis's 
horse  rattled  up  the  approach,  and  when  Marie,  pallid, 
sad,  agitated,  told  him  the  story,  and  brought  him  into 
the  same  chamber  where  he  last  saw  the  judge,  and 
confronted  him  with  this  blackened  white  man,  curses 
deeper  and  more  savage  than  had  ever  passed  his  rough 
lips  before  were  his  welcome  to  his  friend.  That  useful 


456  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

creation  of  Sterne,  the  well-known  recording  angel  who 
forgave  Uncle  Toby's  oath,  must  have  had  a  hard 
time  with  Hubert  Levis !  And  yet  there  was  not  a 
particle  of  intended  profanit}7  in  his  words ;  they  were 
the  outcome  of  strong,  indignant  sympathy  and  emo 
tion,  and  surely  for  this  once  were  unrecorded  against 
him. 

A  sadder  conclave  could  scarce  have  been  held  than 
these  three  formed  that  night  in  the  judge's  chamber. 
Already  mental  torture,  and  what  to  him  were  physical 
privations,  had  hollowed  Louis  Fontaine's  cheek  and 
sharpened  his  temples.  Marie's  eyes  were  red  with 
weeping,  and  her  face  drawn  and  sallow  with  the  fear 
ful  shock,  while  Dr.  Levis  wore  the  aspect  of  a  grimmer 
sphinx  than  ever  glared  over  the  sands  of  an  Egyptian 
desert. 

Yet,  after  all,  there  was  but  one  decision  to  arrive 
at.  Judge  Fontaine  must  be  kept  in  hiding  till  time 
and  skill  should  be  brought  to  bear  on  this  calamity, 
and  to  that  end  a  suite  of  rooms  were  set  apart  for 
him,  and  no  one  but  his  wife  and  Levis,  through  all 
that  weary  winter,  allowed  to  see  bis  face.  He  heard 
his  children's  prattle  and  laughter  outside.  He  gazed 
at  them  through  the  half-turned  blinds  as  a  soul  in  pur 
gatory  might  regard  the  cherubs  of  heaven  ;  but  he 
could  not  feel  their  soft  kisses,  their  clinging  arms, 
their  exuberant  caresses.  From  them  —  ah,  worst  fate  ! 
—  from  his  wife,  he  was  parted  by  an  abyss  neither 
hand  nor  foot  might  cross. 

Dr.  Levis  wrote  to  all  the  physicians  at  home  or 
abroad  whom  he  knew  by  name  or  reputation,  and  paid 
fees  untold  for  their  advice  ;  but  none  of  their  experi 
ments  availed  anything.  Some  inscrutable  change  in 


A  HARD  LESSON.  457 

the  pigment  of  the  true  skin  had  taken  place,  and  no 
human  power  could  blanch  it.  Louis  Fontaine  had 
been  relegated  to  the  place  of  his  slaves  in  a  deeper 
fashion  than  he  was  ready  to  understand.  But  could 
he  understand  it? 

His  father,  his  grandfather,  his  ancestors  for  genera 
tions,  had  held  and  accepted  slavery  as  the  natural  and 
needful  adjunct  of  their  lives.  They  were  born  to  it, 
steeped  in  it,  made  by  it  what  they  were.  It  was  not 
to  them  an  accident,  or  a  fiat  voluntas,  but  a  thing  as 
matter-of-course  as  the  air  they  breathed,  or  the  earth 
they  trod  on.  Not  even  this  personal  convulsion  of 
nature  opened  Louis  Fontaine's  heart  to  perceive  the 
woes  and  wrongs  of  bondage  and  bondsmen  ;  he  could 
only  feel  his  own. 

But  another,  mightier  revolution  was  at  hand  ;  for, 
while  he  la}-  secluded  in  the  lonel}'  luxury  of  his  cham 
bers,  Lincoln  was  elected,  and  war  inaugurated.  It 
was  long  before  the  news  reached  Rosieres,  but  it  fired 
Judge  Fontaine's  heart  and  soul  with  indignant  fury. 
Lie  there  he  could  not  and  would  not,  nor  did  Marie 
seek  to  detain  him.  She  had  no  longer  a  husband,  and 
yet  he  was  there.  Love  and  loathing  set  her  in  a  con 
dition  as  unnatural  as  painful.  In  her  heart  she  was 
glad  to  evade  it  for  a  time,  for  she  knew  the  South  must 
triumph  ! 

So,  as  Dr.  Levis's  body-servant,  Louis  Fontaine 
joined  a  Louisiana  regiment. 

By  one  of  those  incidents  we  call  "  dramatic,"  as  if 
the  drama  were  not  an  inadequate  expression  of  life, 
instead  of  its  imaginative  exaggeration,  at  the  first 
great  battle  of  his  experience,  rushing,  in  defiance  of 
discipline  or  his  position,  to  the  front,  Louis  Fontaine 


458  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

was  shot  through  the  lungs,  and  the  bullet  that  sped 
him  came  from  Stephen  "Fontaine's"  rifle.  For 
Stephen,  too,  had  risen  at  the  call  of  his  brethren,  and 
Cain  met  Cain  on  the  red  field  of  war ! 

Yet  it  was  Stephen  who  picked  up  Louis  from  the 
ground  where  he  fell,  and  carried  him  to  the  surgeon's 
tent. 

The  doctor  shook  his  head  as  he  lifted  it  from  the 
examination.  "  No  hope  ;  but  he  deserved  it  for  fight 
ing  against  his  race,"  he  said. 

"He  is  a  white  man,  doctor,"  answered  Stephen, 
sadly;  "born  white,  blackened  by  what  you  doctors 
call  disease,  and  I  call  God.  He  was  put  into  our  place 
to  see  what  was  the  curse  of  the  slave  ;  but,  after  all, 
you  see  that  he  did  not  learn  it." 

"  My  brother,"  said  the  grave,  strong  voice  of  the 
chaplain,  who  stood  beside  the  dying  man,  "  do  not  be 
too  harsh  in  your  judgment.  '  Who  did  sin,  this  man  or 
his  parents,  that  he  should  be  born  blind?'  " 


'LIAB'S  FIRST  CHRISTMAS.  459 


'LIAB'S  FIRST  CHRISTMAS. 


"  THERE'S  yer  punkin  ! " 

—  And  he  set  down  on  the  kitchen  table  a  small, 
irregular-shaped  pumpkin  ;  not  a  big,  smooth,  golden 
sphere,  such  as  lay  heaped  on  the  barn-floor  in  hundreds. 

"O  father!"  said  his  wife,  very  gently,  being  a 
little,  wan,  meek-faced  creature,  with  scarce  the  pun 
gency  of  a  mouse,  or  the  spirit  of  a  weakly  lamb. 

"Well!  what  now?"  snapped  Eliab  Hoskius,  turn 
ing  on  the  door-sill  to  look  at  her  under  his  shaggy 
eyebrows. 

"Why,  haint  ye  got  no  better  than  that?  It's  real 
slim-lookin' ;  seems  as  though  we'd  ought  to  kinder  put 
the  bes'  foot  foremost,  seein'  Abner's  comin'  to  Thanks- 
givin',  and  Netty's  comin'  to  stay." 

"  It's  good  'nough,  Sary  Ann.  I  got  a  first-rate 
offer  for  the  rest  on  'em  to  Hickory  farm,  and  they 
won't  take  no  runts  there,  now  I  tell  ye.  It's  good 
'nough.  I  do'no'  why  folks  has  got  to  guzzle  and 
stuff  jest  because  it's  a  Thanksgivin'  day.  It's  bad 
enough  to  have  ye  set  to  that  the  bronze  turkey  had 
to  be  slartered  for't.  I  never  see  his  ekel  for  a  faowl, 
and  I  begrutch  him  to  be  used  to  hum,  when  he's 
worth  five  dollars  good  money  to  the  city,  'most  any 
where." 

Sary  Ann  held   her  peace,  and   the   tyrant  of   the 


460  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

family  took  himself  off.  In  his  remarks  about  that 
bronze  turkey  he  said  nothing  of  the  fact  that  his  wife 
had  given  her  black  silk  apron  to  a  neighbor's  wife  in 
exchange  for  six  eggs  of  this  mighty  breed,  three  of 
which  hatched  out  into  two  cocks  and  a  hen ;  a  pair 
were  kept  for  breeding,  and  this  one,  foreordained  to 
be  the  chief  figure  at  Thanksgiving,  Mrs.  Hoskins  had 
petted,  pampered,  waited  on,  watched  over,  and  run 
after  with  an  anxious  care  its  real  parent  never  could 
have  equalled.  She  had  put  pepper-corns  on  its  un 
willing  tongue  for  the  good  of  its  digestion  ;  she  had 
rubbed  sulphur  and  lard,  kerosene  oil,  wormwood  tea, 
and  nobody  knows  what  else,  into  its  infant  feathers  ; 
and  chopped  onion-tops  and  scalded  meal  and  "pussley  " 
for  it  till  the  kitchen  was  odoi'ous ;  and  now  it  was 
plump  and  glossy  as  a  ripe  chestnut,  and  all  ready  to 
be  killed  for  the  feast.  Yet  'Liab  grudged  it.  There 
are  "more  than  four"  people  like  Eliab  Hoskins  in 
the  world.  He  had  been  born  into  a  state  of  sin  and 
misery,  as  the  catechism  says  ;  ground  into  the  dust  by 
penurious  and  narrow  parents,  and  the  awful  poverty 
that  is  the  lot  of  some  New  England  farmers,  who 
drag  out  a  life  on  its  lonely  hill-sides  more  frugal  in 
its  fare  than  a  hermit's,  and  far  more  dreadful  to  eu- 
dure,  since  its  privations  and  distress  are  not  to  be 
endured  alone. 

'Liab  had  inherited,  however,  the  fruit  of  all  this 
laborious  poverty  in  the  shape  of  a  farm  more  extensive 
than  profitable  ;  but  free  from  mortgage  or  debt  of  any 
kind.  Principally  woodland,  it  had  been  unproductive 
enough,  and  when  he  married  Sarah  Ann  Parks  he 
inducted  the  gentle,  shy,  young  girl  into  a  life  of  hard 
work  and  of  self-repression  which  had  almost  worn  her 


'LIAB'S  FIRST  CHRISTMAS.  461 

out ;  but  for  her  children  she  would  have  been  very 
glad  to  take  the  place  ready  for  her  in  the  lonely  little 
graveyard  at  the  foot  of  Saltash  mountain,  where  her 
father  and  mother  had  slept  this  long  time  ;  but  she 
had  that  motherly  heart  that  is  faithful  to  the  very 
end,  and  she  resolved  not  only  to  live,  but  to  be  as 
cheerful  as  her  life  would  allow,  for  the  sake  of  Abner 
and  Netty,  her  boy  and  girl. 

Abner  had  long  since  left  home  and  the  stern  rule  of 
his  father,  and  worked  his  way  up  from  the  youngest 
clerk  in  a  country  store  to  be  cashier  in  Haverford 
bank,  and  now  he  was  married,  and  had  a  little  girl  of 
three  years  old ;  but  he  had  not  seen  his  home  for  ten 
years.  He  was  coming  home  to  this  Thanksgiving  for 
the  second  time  only  since  he  left  the  farm,  twenty 
years  ago,  a  boy  of  fifteen.  Perhaps  if  he  had  stayed 
with  his  father,  and  spent  his  life  in  that  hand-to-hand 
battle  with  the  elemental  forces  of  nature  that  farming 
means  on  the  highlands  of  New  England,  Abner  would 
have  repeated  him  in  character ;  but  what  was  greed  in 
the  elder  man  developed  only  into  care,  economy,  and 
thrift  in  the  younger ;  and  to  his  work  he  carried  the 
same  energy,  persistence,  and  shrewdness  that  dis 
tinguished  Eliab.  Living  among  other  people  he 
learned  his  own  powers  and  failings  soon  enough  to 
balance  and  correct  them,  and  marrying  a  woman  of 
generous  temper,  high  spirit,  intelligence,  and  warm 
heart,  all  that  was  best  within  him  grew  and  prospered. 
Netty  was  much  younger  than  Abuer ;  and  when  she 
was  fourteen  years  old  her  father  suddenly  discovered 
that  his  acres  of  wild  woodland  had  become  valuable ; 
a  railroad  was  laid  out  through  the  valley  just  below 
the  Hoskins  farm,  and  wood  for  ties  and  sleepers 


462  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN: 

were  in  demand.  Every  cent  Eliab  Hoskins  received 
he  laid  out  in  buying  more  wild  land,  till  he  owned 
forests  far  up  on  the  Canadian  border,  sold  for  nominal 
prices  by  owners  who  did  not  see,  as  he  did,  that  the 
railroad  meant  an  outlet  and  a  sale  for  the  lumber 
hitherto  valueless  for  want  of  transportation. 

If  Mrs.  Hoskins  had  asked  her  husband,  when  she  by 
chance  discovered  he  was  selling  timber  to  the  Northern 
Railway  Company,  for  new  dresses,  or  furniture,  or 
household  conveniences,  she  would  have  received  but 
one  answer,  brief  and  hard  enough,  and  she  knew  it; 
but  when  she  took  her  life  in  her  hand,  as  it  were,  and 
asked  him  to  let  Netty  go  to  Haverford  to  school  he 
did  not  refuse  to  consider  the  matter.  It  is  the  glory 
and  the  strength  of  New  England  that  education  is  to 
its  people  an  inborn  necessity  ;  the  Gospel  is  a  matter 
of  choice  as  to  its  support  and  furtherance :  highlj- 
respectable,  and  not  to  be  set  aside  if  it  can  be  sup 
ported  cheaply  enough  ;  but  even  a  New  England  infidel 
—  if  there  be  such  an  anomaly  on  its  lonely  hills  (an 
infidel  in  open  opinion,  I  mean  ;  practical  infidelity  is 
another  matter)  —  would  be  unwilling  enough  to  let  his 
son  or  daughter  grow  up  without  a  certain  amount  of 
"  book-learning."  So  it  was  at  last  decided  that  Netty 
should  go  to  Haverford,  as  Abner  would  give  her  her 
board  ;  and  there  she  stayed  for  three  years,  brief  to 
her  gay  girlhood,  suddenly  emancipated  from  home 
solitude  and  thrift ;  but,  oh !  how  lonely  to  the  weary 
mother,  who  toiled  on  in  solitude  without  her. 

They  were  all  coming  home  now,  and  Netty's  school 
ing  was  over ;  if  she  had  learned  other  lessons  than 

O  ' 

Haverford  Academy  included  in  its  scholastic  year  she 
did  not  report  them ;  nor  dared  she  confess  certain 


'LIAS'S  FIRST  CHRISTMAS.  463 

strayings  from  the  church  of  her  fathers,  induced  as 
much  by  the  grave  young  rector  as  by  the  beautiful 
liturgj*  of  his  church.  She  was  half  glad  and  half  sad 
to  come  back  to  the  mountain  farm  ;  but  her  tender 
heart  leaped  when  she  saw  how  her  mother's  wan  face 
glowed  to  see  her  again,  and  at  first,  when  Abner  and 
Lizzy  and  tiny  Ruth  were  all  there,  she  did  not  feel 
regret  sharply ;  but  when  mother  had  toiled  through 
the  festival,  made  hard  work  by  her  devices  to  spread  a 
generous  feast,  for  out  of  home  products,  only  grudged 
at  that,  she  wrought  the  dinner  of  the  day  ;  when 
Abner  and  his  family  had  just  endured  the  solitude  and 
bare  cleanliness  of  the  farm-house  for  three  days  and 
gone  away,  then  life  shut  down  on  Netty  like  a  blank 
cloud.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  strain  milk,  peel 
potatoes,  churn,  mend,  bake,  sweep  and  dust,  except 
the  early  week's  change  of  work  in  washing  and  iron 
ing.  Netty  had  to  question  of  what  use  was  her 
education  ;  to  what  end  her  narrow  life  ?  Suddenly  she 
bethought  herself  of  another  holiday  approaching,  one 
she  had  kept  in  Haverford  so  joyfully,  and  yet  her 
memory  never  recalled  the  least  observance  of  the  day 
at  home. 

"Mammy,"  she  said  abruptly,  one  afternoon,  ten 
days  after  Thanksgiving,  as  they  sat  together  at  the 
week's  mending,  "  what  shall  we  do  for  Christmas  this 
year?" 

44  What?  "  said  the  astonished  woman  ;  "  what  be  you 
talkin'  about,  Netty?" 

"Why,  Christmas,  dear!  We  used  to  keep  it  at 
Abner's, — have  a  real  time  hanging  up  stockings  and 
giving  things,  you  know,  and  greens  all  over  the  house. 
Don't  you  ever  do  it  here  ?  " 


464  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

A  smile  sadder  than  tears  stole  over  Mrs.  Hoskins's 
tried  face. 

"Why,  Netty!  —  we  don't  keep  Thanksgivin'  most 
years.  Father  aint  one  of  them  that  b'lieves  in  play- 
spells,  ye  know.  Come  to  think,  I've  read  about  it 
somewheres  ;  mebbe  'twas  in  the  paper  Amarinthy  Snow 
sent  over  one  time  for  me  to  see  about  that  medicine 
that's  good  for  rheumatiz.  I  guess  I  did ;  some  folks 
think  the  Saviour  was  born  that  da}-,  I  b'lieve.  I 
do'no'  how  they  know." 

"Well,  but,  mammy,  supposing  they  don't  know 
just  the  very  time,  isn't  it  good  to  take  a  day  to  be 
glad  in,  for  all  that?  And  I  don't  feel  sure  they  don't 
know ;  folks  that  know  more  than  I  do  have  thought 
He  was,  for  years  untold  ;  and  it  seems  as  if  we  ought 
to  do  something  to  tell  what  day  it  is  thought  to  be, 
anyway." 

Mrs.  Hoskins's  face  fell. 

"I  don't  b'lieve  I'd  try,  dear.  Father  aint  one  to 
give  in  to  new-fangled  ways  a  mite.  I  don't  b'lieve 
he'd  like  it." 

Netty  laughed  ;  so  far  she  had  not  come  into  opposi 
tion  with  her  father,  and  she  had  most  abundant  faith 
in  her  powers  of  pleasing. 

"We'll  see,"  she  said,  confidently.  "I  could  trim 
up  the  house  beautifully ;  there's  lots  of  young  hem 
locks  up  the  hill,  and  it's  such  mild  weather  the  ground 
hasn't  frozen  yet,  and  I  remember  that  old  lot  full  of 
sumachs,  where  there  are  three  kinds  of  ground  pine  ; 
and  I'll  coax  father  to  give  me  some  money,  and  we'll 
have  your  first  Christmas-day  kept  in  good  fashion, 
mammy." 

Mrs.  Hoskins  turned  her  head  away,  and  pretended 


ALIAS'S  FIRST  CHRISTMAS.  465 

to  see  something  out  of  the  window.  She  hated  to  nip 
Netty's  hopes  in  the  bud ;  she  knew  the  girl  might  as 
well  hope  to  move  that  dismal  old  gray  bain  she  was 
staring  at,  with  its  littered  yard  and  rickety  fences 
telling  the  story  of  neglect  and  penuriousness,  as  to 
move  her  father  ;  and  yet  —  poor  mother  !  —  it  was 
perhaps  possible  that  those  clear,  sweet,  gray  eyes,  that 
rippled  wealth  of  hair,  those  firm,  red  lips  and  warm, 
flushing  cheeks  she  found  so  irresistibly  lovely,  might 
touch  'Liab's  heart  as  she  herself  had  never  touched  it. 
Yet  so  small  was  her  faith  that  when  after  supper  was 
over  and  the  dishes  washed,  and  Netty  drew  up  her 
own  low  chair  to  'Liab's  side,  as  he  sat  in  the  chimney- 
corner  warming  his  feet,  Mrs.  Hoskins  went  away  up 
stairs  on  some  poor  pretext,  and  shivered  in  Netty's 
cold  bedroom  rather  than  see  her  darling  hurt. 

But  of  all  this  Netty  was  unaware ;  she  had  never 
yet  since  she  came  home  from  Haverford  asked  her 
father  to  do  ai^thing  for  her,  and  her  courage  was  like 
all  untried  courage,  —  very  strong. 

"  Father,"  she  began,  "  didn't  you  ever  keep  Christ 
mas  when  you  were  a  boy  ?  " 

"  What?"  growled  'Liab. 

"  Didn't  you  hang  up  your  stocking  and  give  people 
things,  Christmas?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you're  talkin'  about,  girl.  I 
put  my  stockins'  on  my  feet  since  I  was  big  enough  to 
do't.  I  wa'n't  fetched  up  to  no  nonsense." 

"  Well !  "  said  Netty,  a  little  less  cheerily,  "  I  sup 
pose,  come  to  think  of  it,  there  weren't  any  Episcopa 
lians  round  here  then  any  more  than  there  are  now ; 
but  we  always  kept  it  at  Abner's,  and  everybody  gave 
presents  all  around,  and  we  went  to  church,  aud  I 


466  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

thought  if  you'd  give  me  some  money,  dear,  —  ten  or 
fifteen  dollars, — why,  I  would  make  Christmas  here, 
and  have  it  so  nice  for  mother  and  "  — • 

"  Stop  sech  talk  right  off.  I  won't  hear  to't !  Ten 
dollars  !  Why.  be  ye  out  of  your  head,  girl?  TiscoprJs, 
indeed !  rneetin'-house  is  good  enough  for  me,  an'  I've 
been  a  purfessor  this  forty  odd  year.  I  guess  not ! 
It's  darned  nonsense,  the  hull  on't.  I  haint  got  no 
money  to  throw  away  on  sech  stuff,  nor  Sary  Ann 
don't  want  no  sech  notions  put  into  her  head,  now  I 
tell  ye ;  nor  don't  ye  go  to  doiu'  on't.  Ten  dollars ! 
I  wonder  ye  don't  want  a  hundred  !  I  aint  no  man  to 
throw  away  dollars.  I've  spent  a  heap  too  much  on 
yer  edicatiou  a'ready,  partickler  if  this  notion  comes 
on't ;  hevin'  food  an'  raiment  you  had  ought  therewith 
to  be  content,  as  Scriptur'  says.  Moreover  an'  where 
withal  I  don't  mean  to  hev  ye  a-idlin'  round  all  yer 
days  ;  there's  a  school  deestrict  over  to  'Sable  Four 
Corners,  where  they're  a-goin'  to  want  a  teacher  next 
spring.  I'm  school  committee,  and  I'll  give  ye  your 
time  so't  you  can  take  that  school  come  April,  and 
'arn  your  livin'.  Come  to  that,  I  guess  you  won't 
hanker  after  no  Christmas  nonsense.  Well  —  it's  bed 
time  pootty  near.  I'll  go'n'  shake  down  a  little  fodder 
for  them  caows,  and  you'd  better  go  'long  up  charm- 
ber." 

Netty  did  not  answer  ;  she  sat  quite  still  in  her  chair, 
like  one  after  a  blow  which  has  stunned.  'Liab  got  up, 
lit  his  lantern,  and  tramped  off  by  the  shed-door ;  but 
she  never  moved.  She  had  been  away  from  home 
three  years,  and  the  halo  of  separation  had  softened 
her  remembrance  of  her  father  much.  She  herself  had 
changed,  too,  and  whatever  was  painful  in  that  memory 


'L TAB'S  FIRST  CHRISTMAS.  467 

she  had  learned  to  think  might  have  been  caused  by 
her  own  childish  waywardness.  In  the  fewda}^  Abuer 
and  his  wife  and  child  had  been  with  her  at  home  her 
father,  who  had  a  certain  respect  for  Abner's  success 
in  life,  had  been  as  agreeable  as  he  knew  how ;  and 
since  then  he  had  been  so  busy  that  Netty  had  scarcely 
seen  him  except  at  meals,  and  never  before  had  she 
had  occasion  to  ask  of  him  a  favor.  Now  all  her  de 
lusions  were  gone :  she  saw  him  as  he  was,  a  hard, 
cold  man,  penurious  and  insensitive  even  to  the  only 
child  left  him  ;  and  a  man  so  intrenched  in  his  profes 
sion  of  religion  that  he  could  not  see  himself  to  be  in 
the  wrong.  That  he  was  honest,  thrifty,  and  a  con 
stant  attendant  at  meeting,  though  it  was  a  five-mile 
ride  to  the  church  in  the  valley,  went  for  nothing  in 
Netty's  mind ;  for  her  heart  was  hurt,  and  she  was  a 
woman.  She  bent  her  head  on  her  hands  and  cried 
bitterly  and  silently,  lest  mother  should  hear ;  it  was 
not  the  mere  disappointment  of  the  daj-, —  that  she  could 
have  borne  ;  but  it  was  the  blank,  chill  outlook  on  a 
denied  and  repressed  life  lying  before  her ;  a  life  of 
exacted  labor  and  loveless  thrift.  Netty  had  a  gen 
erous  soul,  ready  to  lavish  itself  and  all  its  possessions 
on  those  she  loved  as  freely  as  the  odorous  ointment 
wns  poured  out  by  Mary  on  the  feet  of  Him  whom  she 
adored  ;  but  she  had  also  sense  and  courage.  If  it  had 
been  her  lot  to  marry  the  aforesaid  young  rector  in 
Haverford  she  would  have  spared  and  pinched  and 
twisted  and  turned  his  small  salary  till  ever}'  cent  was 
put  to  good  purpose,  burnt  her  fingers  ironing  his  bands 
and  cooking  his  savory  dinners,  spoiled  her  eyes  making 
his  shirts,  and  broken  down  her  health  taking  care  of 
him  and,  that  clerical  blessing  that  never  fails,  his 


468  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

children ;  but  she  would  have  dispensed  wealth,  had  it 
fallen  to  her  share,  with  the  liberality  of  a  born  queen. 
Now  she  was  not  thinking  of  the  ten  dollars  or  the 
Christmas  gifts,  but  of  her  father's  hard  heart  and 
niggard  nature. 

She  sat  there  when  'Liab  came  back ;  he  had  left 
his  boots  at  the  shed-door  and  came  in  to  hang  up  his 
lantern  and  cap,  so  softly  Netty  never  moved.  Some 
thing  in  her  dejected  attitude  stirred  a  throb  deep  down 
in  his  rugged  nature  ;  there  is  sap  even  in  the  gnarled 
boughs  of  an  apple-tree  that,  bent  and  broken  by  the 
stormy  wind  of  year  on  year,  looks  dead  to  the  core ; 
and  even  in  'Liab  Hoskins  there  was  nature,  though  he 
had  overridden  and  starved  it. 

But  he  did  not  speak,  and  as  he  crept  back  into  the 
shed  and  clattered  about  with  his  boots,  dropping  one 
of  them  in  the  dark,  Netty  jumped  up  from  her  chair 
and  fled.  "When  he  came  back  she  was  gone  ;  and  he 
went  into  his  own  room,  where  Sary  Ann  la}7,  having 
retreated  there  from  Netty's  chamber,  when  she  heard 
the  girl  come  upstairs,  b}7  a  back  way,  and  slipped 
into  her  place  speedily  while  'Liab  raked  up  the  fire. 
Mrs.  Hoskins  was  naturally  a  frank  woman,  if  a  coward 
ever  can  be  frank  ;  but  she  was  so  afraid  of  her  husband 
that  she  had  learned  all  those  domestic  deceits  which 
are  the  shield  of  weak  women  ;  nobody  could  be  more 
deaf  than  she  when  she  preferred  not  to  hear,  or  more 
forgetful  when  she  did  not  care  to  remember.  She 
made  cream-cookies  for  Netty  when  'Liab  went  to  mill, 
and  told  her  that  her  father  never  ate  such  things,  they 
did  not  agree  with  him  ;  which  was  true  —  in  a  sense. 
She  was  asleep  now  ;  so  fast  asleep  that  she  heard 
every  breath  her  husband  drew  and  every  movement  he 


•LIAS'S  FIRST  CHRISTMAS.  469 

made ;  so  fast  asleep  that  she  did  not  close  her  eyes 
till  near  dawn,  her  tender  motherly  heart  aching  for 
Netty,  and  shrinking  from  hearing  'Liab's  hard,  sneer 
ing  story  of  the  girl's  presumption. 

When  they  all  met  at  the  early  breakfast  neither 
of  the  three  looked  at  each  other.  'Liab  ate  like  a 
bear  at  its  meal  of  throttled  game ;  it  is  true  he  had 
a  knife,  and  a  symbolic  fork,  which  helped  him  to  hold 
fast  the  thick  sliced  pork  and  spear  the  potato  floating 
in  hot  fat  that  he  bolted  ravenously ;  but  he  none  the 
less  ate  and  drank  like  a  beast  of  the  forest,  and 
neither  knew  nor  cared  that  Netty  nibbled  only  a  crust 
of  bread  and  sipped  the  decoction  they  called  coffee 
with  a  pallid  face  and  heavy  eyes,  and  his  wife  did  not 
eat  or  drink  at  all. 

At  last  he  pushed  his  chair  away,  and,  wiping  his 
mouth  with  the  back  of  his  rough  hand,  made  for  the 
door,  turning  back  to  say,  "•  Sary  Ann,  fetch  them 
old  saddle-bags  down  from  up  charmber,  will  ye,  and 
put  in  a  change  of  things?  I'm  a-goin'  up  to  them  lots 
on  the  Canady  line  this  afternoon.  It's  nothin*  more'n 
a  trail  after  ye  get  to  the  Forks,  so't  I  might  as  well 
go  a  hossback  all  the  way,  and  I  expect  it'll  take  me 
full  a  week  ;  and  like  enough  I  shall  get  soaked  afore 
I  get  through,  and  want  them  red  flannels  the  wust 
way.  Darn  rheumatiz  ! " 

Netty's  heart  gave  a  leap  of  joy,  and  then  stink  again 
to  think  how  undutiful  she  was.  "  Honor  thy  father 
and  thy  mother,"  —  what  does  it  mean  in  a  case  like 
this?  Netty's  conscientious  New  England  soul  began 
to  torment  itself,  but  her  natural  heart  did  feel 
enlivened  and  glad  for  all  that ;  and  by  and  by, 
opening  her  Bible  for  the  daily  reading,  another  text 


470  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN, 

flashed  upon  her  with  that  aptness  texts  of  Scripture 
have, —  "  Fathers,  provoke  not  your  children  to  anger," 
—  and  seemed  to  restore  her  balance  ;  people  who  oc 
cupy  themselves  with  ethics  sometimes  forget  that  duty 
is  individual,  not  natural. 

Buther  mother  had  no  scruples  of  this  kind  ;  her  con 
science  toward  her  husband  had  long  been  dulled.  She 
had  enough  to  do  to  evade  his  exactions  and  cruelties 
when  and  how  she  could.  Love  for  him  she  had  never 
known,  marrying  him  because  he  asked  her  to,  and  she 
was  afraid  to  refuse  him,  and  exchanging  one  bondage 
for  another.  She  was  heartily  glad  'Liab  was  going 
away,  and  packed  his  saddle-bags  with  the  flannel  he 
grudged  carrying,  with  a  light  in  her  eyes  not  at  all 
flattering  to  a  husband  ;  but 'Liab  did  not  care.  Neither 
had  he  loved  her ;  it  was  needful  to  have  a  woman  on 
the  place  when  his  mother  died,  and  old  Parks's  daugh 
ter  was  a  good  worker,  and  not  a  talker  or  gad-about. 
So  he  mounted  the  old  sorrel  horse,  adjusted  his  saddle 
bags,  and  rode  off  with  only  a  nod.  He  did  look 
through  the  open  door  as  if  he  missed  something,  to  be 
sure  ;  but  Sary  Ann  did  not  notice  it,  nor  did  she  or 
Netty,  who  was  in  no  mood  to  be  tender  now,  know 
how  the  thought  of  his  child's  bent  head  and  dropping 
tears  would  recur  to  'Liab  now  and  again  on  his  cold 
ride,  till  he  angrily  fought  the  unpleasing  vision  away, 
and  began  to  cipher  out  in  his  head  the  probable  feet  of 
lumber  his  saw-mill  on  that  mountain-brook  in  the  for 
est  would  run  out  this  }'ear ;  or  the  prospect  of  snows 
heavy  enough  for  his  loggers  to  draw  their  squared  logs 
down  to  the  nearest  slide  from  which  it  would  pay  to 
haul  them  to  the  railway  station.  It  was  two  days  be 
fore  Eliab  reached  the  end  of  his  tiresome  journey ; 


'LIAS'S  FIRST  CHRISTMAS.  471 

two  nights  he  slept  in  log-cabins,  or  shanties,  by  the 
wayside,  and  the  third  day  found  him  at  the  mill,  ener 
getic  and  harsh.  The  men  who  worked  for  him  dreaded 
his  coming,  and  bestirred  themselves  while  he  sta}7ed 
with  an  activity  put  on  for  the  occasion.  He  went 
from  one  camp  to  another,  found  fault,  rated  them  in 
terms  more  forcible  than  kindly,  planned  for  transpor 
tation,  estimated  time  and  costs,  and  pared  down  ex 
penses  with  a  shrewd  thrift  that  made  him  unpopular 
enough  with  the  loggers,  who  swore  at  him  behind  his 
back  with  alacrity  and  energy.  The  fifth  day  he  set 
out  for  the  farthest  camp.  He  had  already  outstayed 
the  time  he  allowed  himself,  and  was  impatient  to  have 
his  business  over,  for  he  had  been  more  than  once  wet 
through  with  cold  rain,  and  the  rheumatism  he  so 
dreaded  twinged  ominously  in  his  bones ;  but  he  was 
not  a  man  to  mind  an  endurable  ache,  so  he  set  out  on 
his  long  ride  over  a  mountain  trail,  not  on  the  old  sorrel, 
which  had  given  out  entirely,  but  on  a  little,  rough, 
Canadian  pony.  He  had  not  gone  ten  miles  when  the  long- 
delayed  snow  set  in  ;  fine,  small  flakes  filled  the  darkening 
air,  beat  in  his  face,  gathered  thickly  on  his  shaggy 
brows,  and  chilled  him  to  the  heart.  He  went  on,  how 
ever,  trusting  to  his  pony's  sagacity  some  ten  miles  far 
ther,  when  it  seemed  to  him,  from  the  thick  bushes  and 
crowded  trees  through  which  the  little  beast  scrambled, 
that  it  had  lost  the  trail.  He  dismounted  to  brush 
away  the  snow  and  see  if  any  track  could  be  discovered, 
stepped  on  a  slippery  stone,  and,  trying  to  recover  his 
footing,  slipped  again,  —  for  the  rocks  were  covered  with 
ice,  —  fell  headlong,  and  lost  his  consciousness  entirely. 
"When  it  returned,  he  was  lying  alone  in  the  dark  forest, 
the  snow  still  whirling  and  whispering  in  air  all  about 


472  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

him  with  the  omi-nous  hiss  and  rustle  of  a  heavy  storm, 
his  pony  gone,  and  night  coming  on.  'Liab  IToskins 
was  a  man  of  courage  ;  his  heart  did  not  fail.  He  was 
strong  in  constitution,  and  used  to  the  shifts  of  a  woods 
man's  life  enough  to  feel  no  dread  of  being  lost ;  but 
when  he  tried  to  rise  to  his  feet  he  could  not :  his  right 
leg  was  broken. 

Then  despair  set  in  ;  never  before  had  he  been  help 
less  ;  and  here  he  was,  in  a  lonely  forest,  with  a  broken 
leg,  neither  food,  fire,  nor  shelter  to  be  had,  and  no 
prospect  of  help  at  hand ;  while  his  nerves,  of  which  he 
had  never  before  been  conscious,  at  last  rebelled.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  through  the  dark  pine  vistas,  for  all 
the  whirling  storm,  he  saw  his  home-fire,  the  clean,  bare 
kitchen,  the  low  flicker  of  the  dying  blaze,  and  before 
it,  —  not  Sary  Ann,  as  she  was  at  that  moment,  busy 
in  cooking  a  savory  supper  of  cream  toast  and  dried 
beef  with  gravy  ;  but  Netty,  her  bright  face  hidden  in 
her  hands,  and  tears  dropping  down  and  glittering 
against  the  flashes  of  the  fire. 

Persistently  the  vision  haunted  him ;  much  as  he 
longed  to  be  in  his  own  bedroom,  to  be  fed  and  tended 
by  his  wife's  patient  hands  ;  hungry  as  he  was,  cold, 
weary,  and  almost  desperate,  — he  could  not  get  that 
sorrowful  little  figure  from  his  thought ;  and  the  wind, 
sighing  bitterly  in  the  pine-boughs,  the  hissing  hush  of 
that  relentless  snow,  the  stealing  and  increasing  gloom 
about  him,  only  intensified  his  anguish,  which  began  to 
be  pain  of  mind  as  well  as  body.  He  must  die  there 
in  the  storm  ;  there  was  no  doubt  of  that.  Would  any- 
bod\'  ever  find  him?  The}'  would  not  even  know  where 
he  died,  there  at  home.  There  would  be  no  funeral ; 
pleasing  and  solemn  prospect  as  a  funeral  always 


'LIAB'S   FIRST  CHRISTMAS.  473 

is  to  the  genuine  New  Englnnder,  he  must  forego  it. 
With  the  curious  perversity  of  that  intangible  and  way 
ward  comrade  we  call  the  soul,  he  figured  to  himself 
how  it  all  should  have  been  :  the  decent  coffin,  and  this 
old  body,  instead  of  lying  a  shrivelled  wreck  for  the 
wild  creatures  to  prey  on,  and  the  stormy  wind  to  rob 
of  all  its  proper  covering,  dressed  in  his  Sunday  suit,  — 
a  shocking  waste  of  good  clothes,  to  be  sure  ;  but  then 
Abner  wouldn't  wear  them,  and  the  women  couldn't, 
—  neighbors  flocking  in  from  far-off  homesteads,  tip 
toeing  into  the  cold  parlor  and  eying  the  corpse  with 
that  ghoulish  delight  characteristic  of  country  funeral- 
goers.  He  knew  how  Granny  Griggs  would  peer  at  him 
and  say  to  Mis'  Mather:  "  Looks  very  nateral,  don't 
he  ?  "  and  how  Priest  Dyer  would  make  a  long  prayer 
including  the  heathen  and  the  isles  of  the  sea ;  then 
how  they  would  sing  China,  —  that  was  what  the  wind 
was  wailing  now,  —  rising  and  falling  in  funereal 
shrieks  and  sobs,  frozen  into  a  despairing  calm  by 
harmony  of  parts  and  rhythm  of  verse  ;  then  "  friends 
will  view  the  remains  ;  "  and  then  —  He  started,  for  the 
dream  had  been  too  real !  He  was  alone  in  the  forest, 
and  the  storm  singing  his  funeral  hymn,  while  still  he 
could  hear  it.  And  Netty  ?  —  she  would  lift  up  her  head 
when  he  didn't  come  home  and  stop  crying !  What 
had  he  ever  done  to  make  her  cry  for  him  ?  Educated 
her?  Well,  that  was  what  he  must  do,  and  he  had 
looked  to  making  it  pay.  He  meant  to  have  her  take 
herself  out  of  his  care,  and  he  had  even  looked  forward 
to  repayment  of  her  school  expenses.  And  Sary  Ann  ? 
What  on  earth  could  she  cry  for?  She  never  had  her 
own  way,  or  what  she  wanted  ;  now  she  would  have  it 
all !  He  meant  to  make  a  will,  and  leave  something 


474  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

handsome  to  Foreign  Missions  and  Blank  College  ;  it 
would  sound  well ;  but  be  hadn't  done  it.  Sary  Ann 
and  the  children  woud  have  it  all,  and  The  New  York 
Deserver  never  would  print  an  obituary  notice  of  him, 
saying  how  much  he  had  left  to  deserving  institutions, 
and  what  a  good  man  he  was  ;  and  how  he  was  now 
reaping  the  reward  of  —  He  started  again  ;  going  to 
die  ;  and  where  after  that?  It  was  the  very  blackness 
of  darkness,  that  outlook !  Nobody  to  mourn  him 
here,  was  there  anybody  to  welcome  him  there?  What 
could  he  do  where  there  was  no  farm,  no  lumbering 
tract,  no  bank  to  keep  his  gold  in,  no  gold  to  keep? 
Another  of  those  plaguing  texts  that  he  had  heard  in 
the  meeting-house  as  if  he  heard  them  not,  and  laid  up 
in  the  dark  chambers  of  his  brain  all  unknowing,  rung 
now  in  his  car  :  — 

"  Lay  up  to  yourselves  treasures  in  heaven,  where 
moth  and  rust  do  not  corrupt." 

He  had  not ;  no,  he  had  not  even  shared  his  money 
with  good  works  on  earth,  nor  even  by  will ;  how  should 
he  show  his  face  in  that  glorious  country  where  loving 
and  giving  are  the  breath  of  life?  Perhaps  this  was 
not  his  conscious  thought ;  it  was  rather  an  instinct  of 
unfitness  that  made  him  shrink  from  the  transference 
to  a  nobler  sphere  ;  but  another  word  pierced  his  soul 
again,  and  made  him  cower  in  spirit  as  if  under  a 
lash :  — 

"  Friend  !  how  earnest  thou  in  hither  not  having  a 
wedding-garment  ?  " 

What  grave,  calm  voice,  having  in  it  an  awful  au 
thority,  spoke  thus  to  him?  At  that  moment  a  soft 
rush  came  through  the  snow,  something  cold  and  wet 
touched  his  cheek,  and  a  hound  threw  up  his  head  and 


'LIAB'S  FIRST  CHRISTMAS.  475 

bayed  loud  and  long.  "What  a  thrill  ran  through  'Llab 
Hoskins  at  the  sound !  His  old  hard,  practical  nature 
slipped  back  to  him  like  a  coat  of  armor.  He  did  not 
think  about  Netty,  or  dying,  or  heaven  am^  more  ;  not 
he  !  Here  was  a  chance  for  life,  dear  life  !  sweet  life  ! 
so  bitter  and  tasteless  and  weary  to  live  as  we  all  find 
it,  yet  so  hard  to  lose  and  leave  ! 

He  lifted  himself  a  little  on  his  elbow  and  spoke  to 
the  dog ;  it  bayed  again,  and  presently  he  saw  a  gleam 
of  light,  and  heard  a  voice  call,  "  Brave  !  Brave  !  "  and 
the  dog  bounded  to  meet  his  master  and  another  man. 
They  were  two  French  Canadians,  burning  charcoal  on 
the  next  tract  to  Hoskins's  lumbering  lots.  The  pony 
had,  it  seemed,  once  belonged  to  Jacques  Dupont,  and 
had  taken  the  track  to  its  old  home  on  the  coaling 
instead  of  that  to  the  lumber  camp.  It  had  gone  on 
after  losing  its  rider,  and  when  Jacques  came  home 
from  the  pits  at  night  he  found  it  at  his  shed,  and 
gathered  from  its  saddle  and  the  bags  that  something 
had  happened  on  the  track.  Fortunately  he  had  a 
helper  boarding  with  him,  and  the  two  set  out  with  their 
dog  to  help  or  rescue,  as  the  case  might  be. 

It  was  with  much  difficulty  that  they  managed  to 
get  'Liab  to  Dupont's  shanty,  though  the  distance  was 
not  great.  Once  there  Dupont's  wife  made  up  a  clean 
bed  on  the  floor  and  laid  the  weary  man  on  it,  cut  off 
parts  of  his  clothes,  and  laid  warm  cloths  on  the  broken 
leg,  which  was  beginning  to  swell  and  be  painful ; 
then  they  fed  him  with  tea  and  crackers,  their  best  and 
carefully  hoarded  luxuries,  and  the  two  men  sat  down 
to  supper,  leaving  the  wayfarer  to  meditate  and  plan 
the  next  step.  That,  no  doubt,  was  to  get  a  doctor ; 
he  would  not  trust  his  leg  to  the  rude  surgery  of  a 


476  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

charcoal-burner.  Dnpont,  being  promised  a  reward  for 
his  services,  left  early  the  next  day  for  a  Canadian 
village,  where  he  said  lived  a  surgeon  of  repute  in  the 
wild  country,  where  he  had  enough  of  such  practice  to 
keep  his  skill  from  rusting.  The  slow  days  went  by 
wearily.  Mrs.  Dupont  was  kind,  neat,  and  voluble ; 
she  did  her  utmost  for  her  guest,  and  now  and  then 
her  broken  speech  brought  a  grim  smile  to  'Liab's  face  ; 
but  the  food  she  had  for  him  was  not  to  his  liking,  and 
the  fever  and  rheumatism  that  set  in  to  enhance  the 
pangs  of  his  broken  leg  made  him  loathe  the  dark 
bread,  the  slapjacks  drowned  in  molasses,  the  constant 
pot  of  beans,  the  potato  soup,  and  herb  tea  that  were 
the  daily  fare  of  the  coal-burners.  When  the  doctor 
came  at  last  he  had  to  stay  three  days  to  reduce  the 
swelling  of  the  leg  so  that  the  bone  could  be  set,  and 
the  only  promise  he  could  hold  out  to  the  patient  was 
that  in  six  weeks  he  might  be  able  to  be  set  on  a  pony 
and  led  down  to  the  village  on  the  lake  below,  thence 
go  by  sled  to  the  nearest  town  where  there  was  a  railway 
station,  and  so  home. 

Eliab  groaned ;  this  was  a  prospect  of  bondage ! 
Six  weeks  to  lie  here  and  think,  —  he  did  not  enjoy 
thinking,  he  had  tried  that  in  the  forest. 

The  doctor  read  his  face. 

"  It  is  a  long  time,  I  know,"  he  said,  kindly.  "  But 
you  are  no  more  3*oung,  my  friend ;  it  is  the  young 
bones  that  knit  themselves  quickly ;  you  must  wait ; 
yes,  it  is  necessary." 

"O-h!"  groaned  Eliab;  he  knew  it  was  truth,  but 
what  a  prospect  lay  before  him !  He  had  asked  the 
surgeon  to  write  to  his  wife  :  she  could  not  come  up 
there,  nor  could  Netty ;  women  could  not  endure  the 


'L TAB'S  FIRST  CHRISTMAS.  477 

peril  and  fatigue  of  such  a  journey,  nor  was  there  a 
place  for  them.  Jacques  and  the  doctor  together  had 
contrived  a  sort  of  cot  for  him,  which  was  at  least 
better  than  the  floor,  and  Jeanne  did  all  a  tender  heart 
and  womanly  instincts  could  do  with  her  poor  means 
and  appliances ;  but  he  heard  his  sentence  with  dis 
gust  and  revolt.  Six  weeks  of  helplessness  at  home 
would  have  been  wretched  ;  here  it  was  unendurable  ! 
Yet  he  had  to  endure  it.  The  five  rosy  children  who 
danced  and  clamored  about  the  shanty  were  a  great 
nuisance,  too,  though  they  were  banished  out  of  doors 
whenever  the  weather  allowed,  and  set  to  such  helpful 
tasks  as  they  could  fulfil  when  storms  prevented  them 
from  playing  outside.  But  after  a  time,  for  want  of 
any  other  interest,  'Liab  grew  to  watch  them  from  his 
cot  as  a  diversion  to  the  cruel  and  weary  thoughts 
which  harassed  him.  How  they  loved  their  mother! 
Naughty,  mischievous,  provoking  as  they  were,  she 
had  a  divine  patience  with  them  that  almost  exasper 
ated  this  spectator.  Her  mild,  sweet,  dark  eyes  never 
flashed  with  anger ;  her  hand  never  lit  in  wrath  on 
round  cheek  or  curly  head.  She  was  grieved  and  hurt 
sometimes  at  their  waywardness,  but  never  impatient 
or  angry.  And  they  loved  their  father  as  well ;  though 
they  feared  him  more,  for  Jacques  had  the  despotic 
element  in  him,  and  ruled  with  stern  justice  his  small 
kingdom ;  but  the  children  always  ran  to  meet  him, 
hung  round  him,  waited  for  him  with  eager  expecta 
tion.  'Liab  was  forced  to  reflect  that  neither  of  his 
own  children  had  ever  greeted  him  so ;  but  rather 
shrunk  from  his  presence  and  kept  out  of  his  way. 

Then  there  came   one   night   he    long   remembered. 
Jacques  had  been  down  to  the  village  below  for  sup- 


478  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

plies,  which  was  a  two  days'  journey ;  the  children 
had  brought  in  from  the  shed  long  wreaths  of  ground- 
pine  and  boughs  of  fir,  with  which  they  adorned  the 
rude  shanty  till  it  was  like  a  bower.  Jeanne  strung 
threads  with  scarlet  cranberries,  and  festooned  them 
here  and  there  among  the  evergreens,  and  in  one  corner 
of  the  room,  behind  a  screen  of  old  quilts,  gave  every 
one  of  her  brood  such  a  thorough  scrubbing  that  when 
the}r  emerged  in  their  Sunday  clothes  they  shone  and 
glowed  like  new  dolls.  A  certain  joyful  decorum 
pervaded  their  manners,  astonishing  to  behold ;  but 
when  Jacques  entered,  loaded  with  bundles,  the  de 
corum  vanished ;  they  threw  themselves  on  him  like  a 
pack  of  busy  wolves,  as  he  laughingly  called  them. 

"  Will  you  cease  then  ? "  called  the  mother,  in  laugh 
ing  tones. 

"  Leave  the  father  for  one  time;  he  is  tire,  terrible 
children  !  He  have  hunger,  I  say." 

"  Get  down,  rascals  !  "  thundered  Jacques.  Then, 
exchanging  a  few  voluble  French  sentences  with  his 
wife,  he  hurried  up  into  the  loft  with  the  basket  he 
carried,  and  Jeanne  put  his  other  bundles  into  the  old 
red  chest. 

"  Come  now!  "  he  called  to  the  children,  who  were 
skylarking  about  the  fire,  not  at  all  abashed  by  their 
dispersion.  "  Come  now !  it  is  to  sing  the  hymn  of 
Noel ;  here  is  the  father  again." 

The  little  crowd  ranged  themselves  in  line,  folded 
their  hands,  and,  looking  up  like  adoring  cherubs,  began 
to  sing  in  sweet,  childish  voices'  that  hymn  of  the  ages, 
in  its  stately  Latin  syllables  :  — 

"  Adcstc  fidcles !  laeti  triumphantes." 


'LIAB'S  FIRST  CHRISTMAS.  479 

Not  a  word  of  its  meaning  did  'Liab  understand,  or 
the  rapt  look  of  Jeanne's  face  and  the  glistening  eyes 
of  Jacques  as  they  listened  ;  but  the  tones  were  sweet, 
the  harmony  pure,  and  his  heart  softened  unconsciously 
under  its  influence.  Had  he  heard  it  pealing  through 
the  high  arched  ceiling  of  some  vast  cathedral,  with 
all  the  splendor  and  color  of  religion's  most  gorgeous 
ritual  to  illustrate  it ;  or  from  the  lips  of  cloistered 
virgins,  in  a  dim  convent  chapel,  it  could  not  have 
impressed  him  as  it  did  in  this  bedecked  shanty,  from 
these  red  childish  lips.  It  was  only  when  the  children 
gathered  about  the  table  for  their  supper,  to-night 
made  a  feast  for  them  by  certain  sugar-cakes  Jeanne 
had  baked,  and  raisins  in  their  porridge,  that  'Liab 
got  a  chance  to  speak. 

"  'Taint  Sunday,  is't?  "  he  asked  Jacques. 

"  No  ;  it  is  the  — what  you  call? —  night  of  before 
Noel." 

"  Well,  I  thought  I'd  lost  my  reck'nin'  ef  'twas 
Sundaj' ;  but  what  the  dickens  is  Nowell  ?  " 

' '  I  forget  to  say  it  to  you  right ;  it  is  the  French  I 
tell  you  ;  it  is  in  your  talk  the  Chrees-mas  !  " 

"  Hm  !  "  growled  'Liab,  moving  uneasilj"  on  his  cot. 

Jacques  shot  a  keen  glance  at  him,  whispered  under 
his  breath,  "  Heretique !  "  and  moved  away  to  the 
table  for  his  own  share  of  cakes  and  porridge. 

Strangely  enough  Netty's  bent  head  and  dropping 
tears  rose  up  before  him  ;  it  was  Christmas  to-morrow, 
then,  and  she  had  wanted  to  celebrate  it,  —  if  he  would 
have  let  her. 

Presently  the  children  were  despatched  to  their  bed 
in  the  loft,  and  Jeanne  began  to  tie  small  stockings,  of 
graded  sizes,  to  the  fir-boughs  here  and  there,  till  five 


480  THE  SPHINX'S  CHILDREN. 

dangled  limply  along  the  wall ;  then  Jacques  fetched 
down  the  basket  he  had  brought,  and  with  happy  faces 
and  sparkling  eyes  the  simple  couple  began  to  fill  the 
stockings  with  their  gifts.  What  poor  little  treasures 
they  were !  A  stick  of  candy  to  each,  a  red  pin-ball 
in  one,  a  rough  wooden  top  in  another,  a  pair  of  gay 
mittens,  a  long  blue  comforter, a  rattle-box  made  from  an 
old  sleigh-bell  with  a  knit  cover,  —  all  these  home-made 
by  Jeanne's  tired  fingers,  as  she  sat  by  the  fire  at  night 
after  the  children's  bedtime.  There  was  a  knife  for 
Paul,  the  oldest ;  a  ribbon,  cheap  but  scarlet,  for  each 
of  the  twin  girls  ;  a  pair  of  good,  stout  shoes  for  four- 
year-old  Jean,  and  a  wooden  doll  for  the  baby,  —  these 
Jacques  had  fetched  from  the  village  ;  then  a  red  apple 
atop  in  every  woollen  leg,  and  the  father  and  mother 
rubbed  their  hands  and  congratulated  each  other  in 
rapid  French.  'Liab  watched  it  all ;  he  had  a  question 
to  ask,  but  not  yet ;  he,  however,  asked  another  of 
Jacques : — 

"  Say  !  why  don't  ye  allus  talk  French,  if  'tis  that 
you're  a-talkin'  now.  Seems  to  come  a  sight  easier  to 
ye  than  Yankee." 

"  It  is  that;  the  French  is  my  born  tongue,  friend; 
but  for  the  children  it  is.  Some  time  we  shall  move 
down,  when  the  forest  burns  away,  when.  I  do  stop  the 
coal  job  ;  it  is  then  the  children,  must  speke  Ingleesh 
for  to  school.  You  see?" 

'Liab  nodded.  He  was  a  man  keen  enough  to  per 
ceive  issues  and  draw  conclusions  in  his  business;  he 
was  not  dull  now,  but  stared  with  a  certain  pained  won 
der  at  these  poor,  ignorant  people  with  their  tender 
parental  feeling.  He  did  not  understand  it.  Pretty 
soon  Jeanne  sat  down  by  the  fire  and  surveyed  her 


FIRST  CHRISTMAS.  481 


work  ;  Jacques  went  out  to  feed  his  goat  and  tie  it  for 
the  night.  'Liab  seized  the  opportunity. 

"  Say,  Mis'  Dupont,  what  do  ye  make  all  this  fuss 
for  about  Chris'mas  ?  " 

Jeanne  started. 

"  Eh?  "  said  she.  "  For  why?  and  does  not  sir  also 
keep  holiday  at  the  house  ?  " 

"I?  No,  marm  !  I  wa'n't  fetched  up  to  no  sech 
goin's-on.  What's  it  for,  anyway?" 

"Ah!  do  you  not  know,  poor  friend?  Why,  it  is 
that  the  good  God  did  come  to-night,  —  oh,  many,  very 
man}-,  long  years  ago.  He  was  to  the  poor  born,  a 
leetel  poor  one  ;  it  is  in  hay  of  the  manger  where  beasts 
eat  that  they  laid  him.  Oh,  the  good,  good  G-od  !  —  to  die 
on  that  cross  he  came  for  men.  He  gave,  —  yes,  him 
self  he  did  give  ;  and  it  is  to-day  he  was  leetel  child,  so 
we  give  to  the  childs.  You  see?" 

"  But  you  hev  to  work  real  hard  to  get  them  things, 
and  Jack  has  to  foot  it  a  long  stretch  to  fetch  'em  ;  ef 
'twas  to  give  to  missionaries  now,  why,  'twould  look 
reasonable." 

"I  know  not  those;  I  have  my  children.  Ah!  I 
should  to  them  give  heart's  blood,  so  not  to  forget  their 
little  Jesus,  the  good  God's  child.  Him  in  the  manger, 
so  poor  as  we,  so  troubled,  and  die  on  the  cross,  that 
Son  of  God,  so  as  Paul  is  my  son.  Ah  !  it  is  not  much, 
but  it  is  dear." 

And  Jeanne's  honest  face  glowed  with  such  tender 
devotion,  such  earnest  love,  that  'Liab  fell  back  on  his 
pillow  awed.  He  slept  little  that  night  ;  the  message 
of  Bethlehem  had  found  him  literally  a  sheep  lost  in  the 
wilderness  ;  yes,  the  Shepherd  had  left  the  rest,  and 
gone  out  upon  the  mountains  seeking  him. 


482  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN'. 

There,  in  the  dull  glow  of  the  dying  fire,  he  recalled 
his  heartless  fatherhood,  his  loveless  home,  his  sins  of 
omission,  that  mocked  the  outward  cold  uprightness  of 
his  life  ;  before  him,  in  this  nook  of  the  forest,  were 
piety  and  affection,  the  like  of  which  never  blossomed 
out  of  his  money  and  lands  ;  here  were  children  who 
loved  their  parents  ;  here  a  father  and  mother  ready  to 
give  up  all  things  and  do  all  things  for  the  happiness 
of  their  children ;  what  had  he  ever  done  for  his  ? 
Abner  had  gone  out  from  him  as  soon  as  he  possibly 
could,  and  made  his  own  home.  Netty  had  stayed,  and 
he  had  made  her  wretched.  Poor  Netty !  her  first 
innocent  request  cruell}'  denied  and  scorned !  It  was 
not  a  merry  Christmas  Eve  for  'Liab  ;  not  even  the 
joyful  shouts  of  the  five  children  next  morning,  as  they 
rifled  their  stockings,  caused  more  than  a  transient 
smile  on  his  rugged  face  ;  but  he  had  set  that  face  in 
a  new  direction  at  last,  even  toward  Bethlehem,  and 
the  New  Song  was  creeping,  note  by  note,  faintly,  yet 
surely,  into  his  heart ;  even  as  the  herald  angels  sang  it 
above  that  lowly  manger  cradling  their  King  :  — 

"  Glory  to  God  in  the  highest;  and  on  earth  peace,  good-will 
toward  men." 

Yes,  Eliab  Hoskius  was  an  old  scholar,  but  he 
learned  his  lesson  at  last ;  not  in  days,  or  weeks,  or 
mouths  ;  nay,  not  in  all  his  life  did  he  learn  it  fully, 
or  without  struggle  ;  but  when  at  length  he  rose  up 
from  that  cot-bed,  and  left  the  shanty  to  go  home,  he 
wondered  at  himself  that  it  was  so  easy,  even  so 
pleasant,  for  him  to  overpay  Jacques  Dupont  for  his 
care  and  shelter ;  and  still  more  he  wondered  to  find 


ALIAS'S  FIRST  CHRISTMAS.  483 

how  his  lips  quivered  when  he  tried  to  say  good-by  to 
Jeanne  and  the  children.  Netty  was  unfeignedly  glad 
to  see  him,  and  Sary,  placid  as  usual,  did  not  refuse  a 
slow  smile  as  he  came  to  his  own  door.  It  is  true  she 
confided  to  Netty,  months  after  :  — 

"  I  thought  pa  was  struck  with  death  cert'in,  when 
he  come  home ;  he  was  real  flabby  and  meechin'  for 
a  spell ;  and  to  my  mind  he  haint  never  been  himself 
sence." 

He  never  had.  The  old  things  had  passed  away  from 
'Liab  ;  but  he  said  nothing  ;  like  all  his  tribe  he  had  no 
speech  for  the  best  and  deepest  feelings  of  his  soul. 
He  changed  in  all  his  ways,  however,  slowly  and  se 
curely.  Netty  was  never  permitted  to  teach  the  school 
at  'Sable  Four  Corners,  and  she  and  her  mother  were 
both  well  supplied  with  food  and  raiment,  even  in  their 
own  opinion,  thereafter.  The  bare,  niggardly  aspect 
of  the  house  also  softened  by  degrees,  and  at  Netty's 
instigation,  Abner,  too,  was  asked  to  let  his  wife  and 
child  come  home  to  spend  the  summer ;  and  sometimes 
when  he  drove  over  to  see  them  that  grave  young 
rector  came  too, —  not  altogether  to  'Liab's  satisfaction, 
who  did  not  like  the  prospect ;  but,  to  his  credit  be  it 
said,  spoke  no  word  of  objection,  and  did  his  best  to 
be  gracious. 

And  when  Christmas  drew  near  again  Netty  had  so 
relearned  her  father  that,  without  fear  or  hesitation,  she 
said  once  more  :  — 

"  Can't  we  keep  Christmas  this  year,  father?"  and 
'Liab  answered :  — 

"  Cert'in  !  cert'in,  child  !  —  only  I  want  ye  to  fix  up 
a  box  of  things  for  them  folks  up  on  the  coaliu'  who 
took  sech  care  of  ine  last  winter.  There's  five  children, 


484  THE  SPHINX'S   CHILDREN. 

—  they'll  like  most  anything,  and  I'll  fetch  a  gown  from 
Haverford  for  Mis'  Dupont,  and  I  guess  I'll  get  him  an 
overcoat.  The  rest  ye  must  fix  to  suit  ye,  Netty.  I'll 
pay  the  bills." 

Never  in  his  life  had  'Liab  received  such  a  hearty 
hug  and  kiss ;  he  turned  away  without  a  word  and 
stared  out  of  the  window  ;  the  old  barn  stood  there  still, 
but  he  was  moved  ! 

"I  do  wonder  what  made  father  change  his  mind 
so !  "  said  Netty  to  her  mother,  after  joyfullj'  reporting 
her  success  ;  but  neither  of  them  ever  knew  ;  nor  that 
God  had  changed  his  heart,  too,  in  that  coal-burner's 
hut  in  the  forest,  by  the  power  of  His  life,  love,  and 
death,  who  came  to  us  at  the  sacred  Christmas-tide. 


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